


Cause and Consequence

by Marin



Category: Kick-Ass (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-09
Updated: 2011-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-21 04:53:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marin/pseuds/Marin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a reality where Red Mist accepts his twisted feelings for Kick-Ass, the future takes a turn for the worse, bloodier and more brutal. Chris acts like the spoiled brat he still is and Dave shows his true colors, for no teenage hero is without teenaged flaws.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted 'Cause and Consequence' roughly...well, incidentally, exactly a year ago today. When I first watched the movie I knew right away I wanted more Chris/Red Mist. This four part fic was written for a close friend and it remains one of the best, funnest memories I have related to fandom. I loved writing this immensely and I hope someone will enjoy reading it. :)

PART ONE

 

“I shall be telling this with a sigh  
Somewhere ages and ages hence:  
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,  
I took the one less traveled by,  
And that has made all the difference.”

\- Robert Frost

 

He had been in one of those contemplative phases for a while. Shit could go down around him time and time again and his reactions were passive, to say the least. He would stand, stare and just walk away. Walk away so he could judge every last one of them in the solitude of his bedroom, without fearing getting jumped for what he thought was right.

He had a bunch of grand ideas, Chris did. It had not always been that way, once upon a glorious time he had lived under the impression that “compliance” was the way to go-- and, really? It had been the way to go, and it could still be for anyone who didn't value or aspire to things like free will and still believed they could trust fate.

Which, by the way, you can't.

As soon as he passed the Cursed Years, which range from when you are 12 years old until you turn 17, something inside him clicked and suddenly he found himself seeing all things around him in a different light.

His profound relationship with his bodyguards didn't seem like such fun anymore, in fact, it smelled of loneliness. The way Mother appeared always to be so pleased with him even when he was wrong hinted on an ever growing distance between them, thus no Magic-8-Ball was needed to verify that all the goddamn signs pointed to rejection. Worst of all, his father shunning him out of all the “serious stuff” felt and awful lot like disappointment and a blatant lack of faith to boot.

The world had always seemed so awfully simple and perfect. Chris' world, as it was, used to suffice, even if it only consisted of reading comic books, bragging, masturbating and over indulging in things he didn't care much about but that mattered so terribly to other people, that he wanted to prove he could have them whereas they couldn't-- also known as, an intricate, pompous way of saying he bragged some more.

Then, he turned 17 years old. At first it only seemed like the first step or, more specifically, the bridge that connected being a kid and being 18-fucking-years-old. It wasn't, therefore, much of big deal in Chris' mind until it actually went down.

He saw things more clearly, but he couldn't perfectly process them yet. He saw rejection, loneliness, disappointment, detachment and a whole ordeal of things he would rather have differently, but there seemed to be no way out of those emotional shackles. Chris felt literally tied down to all the stuff that was wrong in his life because, at the end of the day, he was still underage and therefore eyed as a lame ass teenager who could not possibly accomplish anything on his own.

He was, in blander terms, screwed.

At first he tried to convince himself that he was already a grown up and that the way to go was to convince everyone else of such an obvious, irrefutable fact. It couldn't be difficult, he assumed, to show people the truth since it was, well, true.

Chris had been 17 years old for a week and he had been mulling over the universe and humanity for all those long 7 days when an opportunity to impose his new found manliness presented itself.

On that day both his mother and his father were out. Gertrude, their cook, had the brilliant idea of asking one of Chris' man servants what was to be that evening's choice of meal.

“Lotho!” Chris loudly cleared his throat, a clearly unnecessary gesture, for his ominous entrance in the room, hands behind his back and single cocked eyebrow, should suffice to get attention.

Lotho and Gertrude remained deep in conversation regarding peas and the atrocious prices of carrots those days. Chris stepped forward and stood nearly between the two of them, clearing his throat one more time.

“Lotho! I shall deal with this,” Chris said with very well cocked eyebrows. His efforts had seemed to do the trick in keeping Lotho silent. “For an entree we shall have a salad of assorted greens with a dressing of caramelized pecans and balsamic vinegar, followed by a first course of a duck and quail whole-grain pie seasoned with a paste of poivre rose and basil, plus a side of grilled vegetables, such as, but not limited to, fava beans, baby carrots and sliced aubergines,” he explained with a great deal of gesturing for effect. “For dessert, we would like that delicious créme brulée drenched in fragrant lavender extract I have heard so much about.”

Gertrude eyed Lotho for some time and then she turned her attention back to Chris.

“Yeaaah,” she said, “I don't think you can even mix duck and quail.”

Chris inhaled and exhaled. Everything was going to be all right, he would get his way, eventually. He just had to explain, very calmly, the truth of how things were going to be run from that moment on.

“Now you listen here, you stupid bitch!” was how Chris begun his speech.

As it turned out, life was terribly unfair and truth proved to be extremely hard to prove, more so than a blatant lie. Chris realized that perhaps he still had a little bit – if not only a couple of specks – of teenager in him. After all, no grown man he knew hid in his bedroom to cry their pretty brown eyes out when their father came home and scowled at them for making the freaking cook resign!

Chris' grown up, 17 year old mind told him he had every right to be upset about having his authority undermined and he should probably look for monetary compensations from his father for all psychological damage suffered. That much was perfectly obvious!

But still, convincing people of his maturity was hard, yet he would not allow himself to give up. His whole existence would be focused on making that point.

It was for that reason and with that goal in mind that Chris had embraced the gift of being 17 and knowing things in order to learn how to use that knowledge to his advantage, meanwhile dealing with the still crazed, hormone-driven emotions of a 17 year old.

Therefore, contemplative it was! A mouth tightly shut, as Chris had learned, could do wonders for his manliness. After all, if he didn't voice his thoughts there would be no one to contest them, with no one to contest them he would never have his ego and his drive killed by some moron who clearly didn't know better.

However, there were times when he had to speak up. Most of those times he ended up regretting he had done so, but the occasions when he did hit the mark made up for all previous humiliation.

Chris' plan to bring in Kick-Ass turned about to be one of those rare occasions.

“That,” said his father, bringing Chris' notes closer to the light, “Might actually work. Very, ah, ingenious, son. I suppose.”

Chris grinned. “I know,” said he, “But thanks anyway.”

Truth was, Chris had nothing against Kick-Ass except the fact he had been supposedly meddling in his father's business which, for one, Chris didn't care that much about anyway. If anything, Chris had felt his stomach turning flip-flops when he heard about Kick-Ass in the news, mostly because the fanboy in him wanted to break out and scream at how awesome the whole situation was, but somehow, at the same time, he was also totally jealous.

The irony was that Chris, standing there and savoring the glint in his father's eyes and wrongfully assuming they meant approval of some sort, was actually the closest to his old teenager self he had been in months. Like a child, Chris still believed he had something to prove to his dad.

Torn between rooting for a guy he knew nothing about and wanting to beat him to a pulp for being so inept a hero, Chris only required a tiny final nudge to pick his side: naturally, he was going to please daddy dearest.

Yet, truth was, Frank D'Amico didn't give a shit about costumed heroes and he thought they were such an immense joke that perhaps only another clown would be able to bring them down.

What Frank did not count on, however, was fate.

It was not by chance that Chris had decided to ensnare Kick-Ass by himself, as it was also not simply by chance that the moment Chris laid eyes on that scrawny geek who liked to call himself a super-hero, he knew there was something there. He could feel it in his guts when he met someone who was about to become relevant in his life, for better or for worse.

 

“We can run, but we can't hide,” said Kick-Ass at length. “I guess.”

Kick-Ass, who had always seemed to Chris to be a little on the slow side, remained in silence for the longest time, staring at his hands resting on his lap anxiously. Did he expect Chris to answer? When they stopped at a red light, Chris decided to break the tension.

“Look, I'm no good at that sort of talk,” he said. “I'm a practical kind of guy, I can't help it.”

“Well, but it's not like, philosophy or anything like that. It's just fate,” Kick-Ass insisted. “You've got to at least believe in fate!”

“So what if I don't?” Chris exclaimed. “Also, shut up. You're not smart enough to talk about that stuff and have me listen and give a shit.”

Kick-Ass looked flustered and turned his attention back to his fidgety hands. Chris hid a sneer of satisfaction, he liked to see the guy suffer a little bit.

“Sorry, I was only trying to make conversation,” said Kick-Ass.

“Yeah, and you clearly suck at it!” Chris grinned as an idea dawned on him. “Allow me to demonstrate how we bond here in the Mist Mobile.”

Chris began lowering the window on Kick-Ass' side, exposing him to a neighboring muscle car with two mean looking men in the front seats. They had the windows down and music blasting from their speakers.

“Fuck you, Red Mist. Windows up, windows up,” Kick-Ass begged between gritted teeth as he tried press every button in his sight.

“Your attempts are futile!” Chris declared in an ominously deep voice, waving at the controls to his left. “Today, window control! Tomorrow, safety locking your door!”

Kick-Ass was about to protest when he felt eyes on him and turned slowly around to the two men glaring menacingly at him. He forced a smile and said, “H-Hey, what's up guys!”

“No, that was so lame!” Chris groaned, slapping him on the arm.

Kick-Ass spun around violently and desperately. “I can't do fierce right now!” he cried.

“Okay, settle down, Tyra.” Chris grabbed him by the shoulders and forced Kick-Ass to turn around. “Repeat after me–”

“Yo, what, is, up?” Kick-Ass shouted in a an almost mechanical voice. The dudes glared at him some more. “That, is, a, nice, big – oh fuck, I can't say that! Okay, fine.” Kick-Ass sighed and let the words spill monotonously out of his mouth, “That's a nice piece of junk you pussies got there. There, I said it. We're two dead freaks in costumes.”

The guys began spilling unintelligible profanity.

“I think,” said Chris, loud enough to be heard over their shouting, “That those hand gestures mean they're challenging us.”

“Yep, there are the guns,” Kick-Ass added mildly. “I've never been in a street race. Have you?”

The desperate-for-reassurance look in Kick-Ass' eyes sent a shiver down Chris' spine. Apparently, he liked it even better when Kick-Ass suffered a lot.

“Sure, all the time,” Chris said with dismissive wave of his hand.

“Really?”

“Nope,” Chris grinned, lifting his index finger for effect, “First time, like, ever.”

Christ shifted to first gear and at the sudden green light stepped hard on the gas pedal. The wheels briefly spun in place, making the loud, distinctive sound of a show-off, then the car suddenly charged forward. Kick-Ass panicked in his seat as if looking for something to grab on to and only sort of calmed down when he found it.

What followed was such an intense mixture of adrenaline with pure, terrible fear that neither Chris nor Kick-Ass ever knew for sure what had went down in matters of maneuvers. All they remembered was Chris laughing like a maniac and keeping his foot tight on the gas, and Kick-Ass latching on to Chris' right arm and screaming like a little girl.

That was, until–

“Old lady with a shopping bag and three cats on leashes!” screamed Kick-Ass.

Chris swerved right violently, sending the Mist Mobile over the sidewalk and into a grassy park.

“Lake! And some ducks for whatever reason!” was Kick-Ass' following desperate input.

Chris swerved left and hit the brakes as hard as the could. The car spun round and came to a full stop.

Both boys were left breathing heavily for a few immobile, silent minutes, until Chris broke the silence.

“That was awesome! I'm such a Vin Diesel kind of guy!” he shouted.

“Awesome? I thought I was going to die!” Kick-Ass shouted back. “I hate you so much right now, you fucking asshole!”

Chris sneered. “And to think I was gonna ask if you wanted to be my Paul Walker,” said he disapprovingly. “You're not even a Michelle Rodriguez, 'cause you're such a giant pussy!”

“Shut up, you're such an idiot!” Kick-Ass exclaimed.

“Michelle Rodriguez totally has more balls than you,” Chris added at length. “That's not saying much, though, since Michelle has more balls than a lot of people and you've got less balls than– ”

Chris fell silent suddenly. He felt something was wrong with that picture, but he couldn't quite pinpoint what. There was some slight discomfort bothering him, like a warmth filling him inside that was enough to make him sweat a bit. Perhaps it was all the rush of street racing? He definitely needed to get his heart checked after that, heart disease ran in the family.

Then it hit him.

Chris looked down at how he was sitting with his right leg almost entirely off the seat and the yellow gloved hands that were clutching his right hand and his upper arm as well. Kick-Ass looked down the same way and when he looked up their eyes met.

“Why?” Chris managed to splutter out, though the words sounded distant and not at all coming from his mouth..

“I thought I was going to die,” said Kick-Ass, like he didn't understand the action (or the explanation) himself.

“Okay, I'd better stop calling you Michelle Rodriguez right now,” said Chris as tactfully as he could at the moment (therefore not at all) and pulled his arm away.

Silence fell once more, only to be broken by Kick-Ass. At first it was just a contained chuckled, but soon it became a full fledged laugh. Chris smiled and soon enough followed suit, feeling completely ridiculous yet also finally swept off his feet by everything that had just went down. He had never crashed a car, nor so much as raced one. As his father's son he had expected that excitement would happen once he grew up, but he had grown up and there was no adrenaline in sight –– apart from what had just happened, and still his father had very little to do with it.

The laughter slowly receded and the distant sound of an ambulance became distinguishable. Chris cursed under his breath and sped off.

“That was fun,” Kick-Ass said eventually. “I'm sorry for saying I hate you, man. I don't, y'know.”

“And I'm sorry for calling you a pussy, like, three times,” Chris said, grinning. “Though I still think you are a pussy.”

“Fuck you, Red Mist.”

And so it just so happened that Chris noticed he also liked it tremendously when Kick-Ass didn't suffer.

That surely complicated matters.

 

The D'Amico family dealt with things objectively. Frank did not beat around the bush, he went straight to business when he had to and he was damn good at it, otherwise he would not be the boss. He had a way of dealing with people that commanded immediate respect, and then he was just as able to recede to a relaxed state in a snap.

No wonder the air in Frank's office felt tension laden.

“I don't get it, son, am I not making myself clear enough?” Frank exclaimed, spinning in his chair to face Chris, and he didn't look happy. “Bring, him, in.”

“I told you before, dad, I think he's just a geek. I don't see how he can have anything to do with what's been going on, so I need to investigate further,” said Chris still in his costume from the evening, the paint around his eyes smeared.

Frank sighed and looked even more dissatisfied. “The longer you wait, the deeper the shit will become.” Frank paused. “Get it done, and get it done fast, or I'll pull the plug on this whole shebang.”

He had his finger pointed at his son. He had never pointed a finger at Chris before, like he did to his thugs.

“Don't worry, dad, I'll get it done,” said Chris, trying to sound enthusiastic. “T-Trust me.”

“That's my boy,” said Frank, letting slip a smile. “I believe in you.”

He didn't. Chris knew he didn't.

Chris got up and exited the room, feeling drained from a night of make believe crime fighting and big responsibilities.

Worse yet, he was beginning to think he might not be able to handle the situation as well as he had thought he could. And it was all Kick-Ass' fault.

 

*

“Look,” said Chris, “I'm beginning to think we should sift through our mission requests a little better, 'cause I don't feel very comfortable right now.”

Kick-Ass, who was a couple of yards behind him, rushed to catch up.

“You think? Really?” he asked sarcastically. “I feel just peachy. But–– I guess you could use a little help.”

“Whatever gave you that impression, man?” Chris faked a smile. “ Maybe it's because I'm being owned by a fucking German Shepherd? But that's just a fucking guess.”

Chris didn't have much more to argue about, since it had been his idea from the start to take the dog mission. He had been working alongside Kick-Ass for a few weeks now and it had not been all fun and games. As soon as he took to being a hero, Chris realized it wasn't as easy as he had expected it to be. Truth was, he was just as inept as he had judged Kick-Ass before.

Jobs didn't come easy, thankfully, so they were just walking around in costumes most of the time. But when they did get plausible missions online, Chris was always presented with a serious issue: since he had been playing the cool and superior hero from the start, he couldn't simply give away the truth. Instead, he picked ridiculously easy missions.

The German Shepherd tried to break into a violent trot when Chris fell to his knees and tugged tightly at the leash, pulling it against his chest and keeping the dog in place. Kick-Ass knelt down on one knee beside Chris to help hold the German Shepherd, his dog, a cuddly Pomeranian, in tow.

“I told you I wanted the Pomeranian,” Chris gasped in a strained voice as he got back onto his feet.

“I don't know, shouldn't you be stronger than this, Red Mist?” Kick-Ass asked, getting up as well, leash tight in his grasp.

“Shut up. I'm plenty strong,” Chris said. “Now help me get this stupid dog to his stupid owner before I break its neck.”

Kick-Ass scoffed. “Yeah, like you could break anything's neck.”

Chris let go of the leash violently. He didn't like being made fun of when he wasn't feeling too hot. No one had the right to mock Chris D'Amico and he liked to make a point out of that.

“Fine! You take the damn dog yourself, Stallone!” Chris exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “You're the hero, aren't you? Go walk your dogs, then!”

He had to go away. The only thing he had to gain from standing there any longer was Kick-Ass' animosity. Chris seriously didn't need anyone else hating him at that point, especially not that asshole.

As soon as he felt Kick-Ass was hurrying his way, Chris walked faster than his strained right leg could stand; it hurt like a bitch and he kept going anyway. He felt his cheeks were hot from having just thrown a pretty pathetic tantrum, but he was so angry he didn't care about acting foolish anymore.

“Red Mist!” Kick-Ass called and rushed after him anyway. It wasn't hard catching up to Chris, busted leg and all. “Wait just a second. Red Mist! Oh, c'mon!”

Chris tried running and his leg hurt so badly it felt like it was trying to kill him from the inside out. He kept going despite the pain. However, Kick-Ass wasn't even following him any longer.

“Fuck you, you pussy!” Kick-Ass shouted.

Chris stopped dead on his tracks. What did he just say?

“You're just a stupid, spoiled brat,” Kick-Ass continued, “And you're always calling me on my shit but you never let me call you on yours. I have been trying to be less of a pussy these days. The least you could do, your majesty, is return the favor and stop acting like a little princess.”

Chris spun around and walked towards Kick-Ass, fists clenched. He didn't let anyone but dad call him names and tell him truths. There was a first time for everything, though, and in that case Chris loathed that he agreed with everything.

It didn't make him any less pissed off.

Perhaps he should have, but Chris didn't think twice before landing a leathery, metal encrusted punch square to Kick-Ass' jaw.

“I know I can be an overly critical asshole,” he said acidly, “But I'm so awesome I've earned that.”

Kick-Ass spat a mouthful of blood on the pavement.

“Sure, whatever you say,” he said, wiping the blood off his chin before pulling a baton and hitting Chris in the stomach.

Chris doubled over in pain for an instant and then, driven by raw fury, jumped Kick-Ass hard enough to make him stumble backwards on a pile of metal trash cans, Chris on top of him still furiously pounding at anything in his way.

Meanwhile, the Pomeranian and the German Shepherd didn't even bother to stick around. They looked at each other, rolled their doggy eyes and walked away from that primitive sight.

“I swear I'm gonna get that stupid fucking stick and beat you to death with it!” Chris screamed, landing a hit in his ribs.

“It's called a baton and I'd love to see you try!” Kick-Ass screamed back, holding the baton horizontally with both hands against Chris' throat to push him away.

Chris gasped for air and bit as many of Kick-Ass' gloved fingers as he could hard enough to draw blood, which made him scream and let the baton go long enough for Chris to snatch it.

“For Sparta!” Chris shouted as he brought the baton down towards Kick-Ass' family jewels.

Then, the world began spinning. Chris had the vague impression he had been kicked in the crotch, but he couldn't tell because he was curling in fetal position on the pavement calling for his daddy. His vision was blurred entirely and he could only hear someone calling his name from very far away.

The ground was cold on his face and he could taste the saltiness of blood in his mouth. He ran his tongue through his teeth, counting them one by one; they were all there, thankfully. The pain that had spread to his legs and torso indicated they were all still there, though Chris couldn't say the same about his balls.

“Red Mist! Red Mist” he heard a familiar voice call.

“D-Dad?” Chris stuttered as his vision began returning to him. “I'm dying, dad.”

“No, you're not,” Kick-Ass said.

Chris blinked twice and realized he could at last see more clearly, even if the pain still made him incapable of feeling much bellow the waist. Kick-Ass had Chris propped up in his arms and head tucked against his chest.

“Kick-Ass?” Chris called.

“Of course it's me. I'm so, so sorry, that was low,” he said.

“Ugh. In your defense, I was just going for the same move, plus I hate children anyways,” Chris assured him, breaking free of his grasp to sit up on his own. “Hurts like a bitch. I should try that one more often.”

“C'mon, I'll take you home or something,” Kick-Ass said, getting to his feet and offering Chris his hand. “Can you get up? Need me to help you?”

Chris blinked rapidly again. He was probably imagining things, but he wondered, just in case, if someone was really deliberately acting concerned about him. Strangely enough, someone was and it felt wrong and weird and horribly delightful. But, at the same time, he felt oddly compelled to take that hand.

Kick-Ass chose for him, forcibly grabbing Chris' right hand and pulling him to his feet.

“Man, you look like crap,” Chris commented with a sneer. “Look at that, busted up your lip pretty bad, that much I can see. And you're a little hunched up –– I'll bet that was a punch in the ribs.”

“You're a dick, did you know that? If I didn't feel awful right now I'd kick your ass some more,” Kick-Ass said with a light shove that was enough to almost knock down poor beat up Chris. Kick-Ass rushed to grab him by the shoulders to try and steady him. “Did I already say how sorry I am?”

“Yeah, but you can ease your conscience some more if you do me the favor of letting me know of all the bruises you'll wake up to tomorrow,” Chris said sweetly. “I'd love to hear about that.”

And he meant it. What was it with him and the delirious desire to see Kick-Ass beat to a pulp? He didn't even mean it in a destructive way. He just wanted to see him bleed a little bit, was that a crime?

“Will that shut you up?”

“About what happened here today, yes.”

“Done!” Kick-Ass said, shaking hands with Chris.

Chris grinned. To think he had been the one to begin that whole shitstorm. Kick-Ass really was pretty slow.

“But only 'cause you're a friend,” Kick-Ass added.

Chris' world, in turn, crumbled down. A friend? What the fuck? Kick-Ass should learn when to shut up and let Chris feel like he had won. Mom did that all the time.

“Excuse you?” Chris exclaimed before he could control himself.

“Hmm, yeah,” said Kick-Ass hesitantly. “I thought – I mean, it is okay to call you that, right? Just because we're partners doesn't mean we aren't friends, like– Unless you don't– ”

“No, no,” Chris interrupted. “We're friends. We are friends. Right?”

He didn't have any real ones prior to that moment; it felt surprisingly good.

“Right,” Kick-Ass said with an embarrassed half smile. “I'm Dave.”

Chris' eyes widened. Dave? He stared at Dave with an inquisitive, single-raised-eyebrow look.

“We're going down that route now? First name basis and all?” he asked suspiciously.

“I-I assumed it wouldn't hurt,” Dave said, looking away.

“Hey,” Chris called with a snap of his fingers. Kick-Ass turned his attention back at Red Mist. “I'm Chris.”

Dave smiled. “Nice to meet you, Chris,” said he, extra-polite.

“Nice to meet you too, Dave,” Chris returned the courtesy. “Though that's a really crappy name.”

“Oh, 'cause Christopher is so fucking manly!” Dave shot back.

“Why, yes it is! And it's a name suitable for nobility, unlike freakin' David!”

“That's so not true.”

It hit Chris that they had been standing in the middle of the sidewalk for a while, it was out of sheer luck no one had saw them. Once back to reality, he noticed something amiss. He glanced all around before coming at last to his senses.

Oh, shit.

“The dogs are gone, by the way,” Kick-Ass said, pointing out the obvious.

“Oh, are you sure, Davey? They might have just gone for a cup of coffee or some shit. God, you're useless!” Chris exclaimed, shaking his head. “Let's go grab the Mist Mobile and look for them before the old hag who hired us trashes us to the press!”

 

 

“Where is he, Chris? God, you're useless!” Frank hit the writing desk with a clenched fist. “What did I buy you all that crap for, huh? For you walk around Manhattan in leather pants looking like a freak?”

Chris swallowed hard. He had always assumed he looked awesome in the leather pants.

“I'm sorry, dad. It's just – he's not the one,” said he. “Kick-Ass is just a comic book geek, I've told you before. And I didn't meet any of the others so far!”

“Jesus, son, how long is this going to take? It's been 2 months of this shit.” Frank massaged his forehead slowly like he did when he was trying to hold back. “You're not leaving me with an awful lot of options here, you know.”

“I know, dad. Just one more month, one last try, I swear!” Chris said, pulling his mask off.

Frank analyzed his son from head to toe. “One more month, and then I'll pull the plug,” he said at last.

“I won't let you down, dad,” Chris said ominously before leaving the room.

Frank didn't believe in that, neither did Chris, but they were both used to lying.

Chris was tremendously tired and thought that perhaps he wouldn't so much as make it to the bathroom. He stripped out of his Red Mist costume and tossed it aside. Chris lay down on his bed, hands behind his head and staring at the ceiling blankly, musing at just how screwed he actually was.

Very screwed, he concluded.

It was no use playing his demise over and over in his head, or trying to imagine the thousands of ways his father could punish him, Chris assumed. There were good things happening to him at that point, he didn't want to think of anything but. There was no need to be an adult all the time, he should have the right to savor the ambiguity of being 17 every once in a while.

However, the moment his thoughts drifted to Dave they also trailed to a swarm of other thoughts that made him inevitably restless. He had made a friend, but his friend didn't know Chris had been conspiring against him from the start. Then there was Chris' dad, who had no idea his son had never enjoyed the company of anyone else prior to Dave, the fucking enemy of all people.

If dad found out, Chris was deader than dead. If Dave found out, he was just going to be alone again. Loneliness was surely better than death. Chris' felt a knot in his throat. His dad mattered to him, but the immeasurable emptiness in the pit of his stomach at the thought of never talking to Dave again was quite worrisome.

He would never have thought of allowing himself to disappoint his father, but, recently––

“Fuck, Dave,” Chris muttered, stuffing his head on the pillow like he wanted to disappear. “Fuck.”

It was going to be a long, long night.


	2. PART TWO

PART TWO

 

“ While the fates permit, live happily; life speeds on with hurried step, and with winged days the wheel of the headlong year is turned. ”

\- Seneca

-o-o-

People who pretended to be “privilege aware” (but who were actually deadly envious of his lifestyle) often asked Chris if he didn't think the cons outweighed the pros when it came to being a billionaire. He would take a minute to politely pretend to meditate on the issue, then tell them to fuck off.

Why would he want to be poor? To go and be miserable with everyone else? No freaking way.

Being the young son of a billionaire was peculiar, to put it lightly. Despite feeling as if he was constantly being watched, Chris got to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted and other people were, strangely enough, resistant about telling him off; Nannies, teachers, PTA members in general, his dad's business partners... and complete strangers as well, no one fucked with him.

When he was younger, Chris assumed it was because other people somehow respected a parent's authority and expected that the D'Amicos would get their son in line eventually.

One day he learned no one respected anything in the real world.

Soon he made the connection: his dad was what they were scared of. Even his mom didn't dare meddle into Frank's business and even pretended to live in an alternate reality where trafficking drugs and firearms was merely code for “desk job”.

As much as Chris loved the concept of power and despite his infatuation with guns and their effect on people, he was aware the life of a billionaire crime lord was a lonely one. Family members confused with business partners and the other way around, needless to say they didn't have many typical holidays; There was always an altercation, always a body part in the Christmas pudding, so to speak.

He opted against homeschooling, choosing instead to face other children his own age. School itself was hard on everyone anyhow, rich or not. Chris eventually found that having a bodyguard with him at all times reduced the stress a great deal, though, so he never complained about it to his dad. It wasn't ideal for making friends, clearly, but he managed it just fine.

He didn't have a great many friends, yet it never hindered him from being sociable. He wasn't the life of the party, for instance, but if the need ever arose he would just up and pay someone to make him feel like he was. Otherwise, crowds were not his thing.

Sometimes Chris felt he was more inclined to be completely alone than in the company of dull people; It suited him to be alone, and loneliness, in turn, suited him. Chiefly, when Chris needed to be entertained he would go to a comic book shop and find excitement among characters who took him away from the commoners around him.

That afternoon he needed a break from the simple people and didn't feel like calling any of his thugs, also known as his pretend friends from school. When they went out together they expected Chris to pay for everything. Excuse them, but that fortune was his to spend, they should go earn their own! Chris' cheap antics towards other people kept the gold-diggers at bay, something he ended up sort of ruing, since it must have been nice to have his own army of 'hos.

The frappuccino was sub-par and the comics weren't as good as they used to be when he was 10 years old, but he felt at home and in peace, it sufficed. He only needed a break in a more becoming environment where he could let his thoughts wander, away from his father and even further way from Kick-Ass.

He hated the people who hung out at that particular comic shop. They were mostly zit covered teenagers and a handful of greasy girls, not one of them suitable enough to keep him company. When the comics got boring, Chris put them aside and took to another one of his favorite hobbies.

“Look at them, Marcus,” Chris said, waving at the commoners with his caramel frappuccino in hand. “So pathetic, lifeless. If only they knew what they were missing in life, just sitting on their asses here all day!”

“Mmhmm,” agreed Marcus the Bodyguard.

“No, seriously, look at those two greasy clowns. They probably have no where else to go, 'cause they're always here. No doubt from a commoner public school nearby, with their triple layers of hoodies and cheap shoes,” Chris continued, sipping his frappuccino with a disgusted look. “Oh, look, if it isn't their curly haired bestie! His smile is so retarded! His wimpy ass voice makes me think of suicide, I swear. He's always, like, nice to everyone – just the kind of person I don't like.” Chris pretended to vomit. “Now that's weird, there's a girl with them. Two girls! One is pretty ordinary and the other one I can't see– oh. She's kinda hot.”

“Mmhmm,” said Marcus.

She was hot. Very pretty, in a traditional kind of way. He stared at her for a few minutes, scrutinizing her appearance until he convinced himself she was ugly and a whore.

“What is a pretty girl doing with those losers anyway?” he asked in revolt. “She should be sitting with me or something. I'm the hero here! Plus, I'm rich,” Chris licked his lips and pondered, “Chicks dig cars! C'mon, Marcus, give me the keys so I can spin 'em on my finger for all to see.”

Chris' heart skip an beat. The girl had just kissed the curly haired loser beside her, and the greasy chick kissed the greasy dude. What had the world come to?

He stared open mouthed at Marcus. “Where do they think they are? This is a family establishment and I find that highly inappropriate!” he exclaimed, sipping furiously at his frappuccino.

“Mmhmm.”

“Shut up, Marcus! I didn't ask for your opinion!” Chris grunted, pushing his drink away. “This caramel frappuccino tastes of feet. Let's go to Starbucks or something.”

Chris checked his watch.

In the end, Chris sent Marcus, bodyguard extraordinaire, home and stuck around. He had never felt such undivided hatred for anyone else before. The curly haired guy had never said so much as word to him before and Chris already wanted to strangle him. They had been coming to the same comic book shop for a year or two and Chris had never minded the guy too much, but he admitted to letting his eyes wander that asshole's way more often than he should have. It was like Chris felt there was something different about the guy. He never cared much beyond that, though.

Then, why did he care now, of all times?

Chris checked his watch again.

Six frappuccinos later, Chris was torn between shaking from cold and feeling jittery from the caffeine, he couldn't even read the “Amazing Spider-Man” issue in his hands; thankfully that didn't matter much to him, the comic was just for show anyhow: Chris' eyes were glued to the asshole and his hot girlfriend.

He knew that fucker from somewhere. Maybe if Chris punched him the memory would come back to him? Even if it didn't, hurting that guy felt like an awesome idea. How hadn't he thought of it before? Those baby blues wouldn't look as pretty anymore, swollen and encircled with purple.

The clowns left at around six o'clock and not fifteen minutes later the asshole and the girl got up to leave as well in a mood of undeniable romance. Chris' chugged the last of his seventh frappuccino. For a second he forgot he wasn't in his Red Mist costume and strode after them as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

As he stepped outside, Chris had to shield his eyes with the back of his hand. The sun was setting and the skyline in the distance was already enveloped in a strong, reddish light. The number of cars was growing, the wind getting chillier.

Chris checked his watch.

He followed the couple for a block before beginning to feel ridiculous. He had been staring compulsively at them for 2 hours and he still had no idea where his drive to do so was coming from. As that drive began to subside, the curious and spoiled side of him took over to keep him from giving up.

At the second block of the duration of the chase, the asshole suddenly stopped and pulled out his phone. He began to turn around, so Chris hurried and picked an inconspicuous position behind a restaurant's dumpster, where he stood and tried to do whatever people do when they're absentmindedly standing near filth.

Chris peeked at the asshole and saw him dial.

Chris sprung out of hiding and took a chance by approaching them more, when his phone started ringing. Chris slapped a hand quickly over his jeans' pocket, nearly too late. He had to leap sideways and barge in a bookstore to keep out of sight, but his movements didn't go unnoticed to the bitch, who eyed him strangely for an instant. The asshole himself, though, didn't so much as turn around or mind the bitch's yammering at him.

Chris pulled out his cellphone and checked the caller's id.

It was Dave.

“Hello?” Chris answered meekly.

“Hey, Chris,” said a voice over the phone, though it sounded strange, like there was an echo. “It's Dave.”

Chris' eyes widened and he looked out the bookstore's window. There the asshole was, talking on the phone and looking stupid as per usual. Chris' heart was beating fast and his thoughts were shrouded in a rush of adrenaline.

Oh, God, no.

“H-Hey, Dave, what's up?” Chris stuttered, his voice faint. As he took a step closer to the window the guy slightly turned his way and Chris could see his profile.

No, no, a million times no.

“I'm good,” said the asshole outside. “I can't make it tonight, though, I'm sorry. Something came up– I'm really sorry.”

The asshole stuffed his free hand in his pocket and fidgeted in place, restlessly, and looking away almost as if avoiding the bitch's eyes. Little did he know he had almost met Chris' and that would have been infinitely worse.

Chris' grip on his phone tightened and as the initial shock diminished and gave way to an indescribable tightness in his chest that kept him torn between anger and unfounded betrayal.

“No need to be sorry,” Chris answered coldly. “I have plans for tonight already anyway, and tomorrow too. We'll talk some other time, I've gotta go. Things to do, places to be, girls to nail, the usual.”

“Wait, Chris––”

Chris hung up before the conversation could go any further. He was sure that if it did he probably wouldn't be able to control himself.

Outside, Dave was quick to recover. It took him only an instant to stare at his phone with a frustrated look, only to then stuff it in his pocket and beam at the bitch as if nothing had happened whatsoever.

Chris took off the opposite way. He didn't feel like doing anything stupid today.

 

-o-o-

 

Dave and his apologies. He was always full of apologies, always had one at the tip of his tongue, the son of a bitch. Unfortunately for him, Chris was just the sort of hard headed son of a bitch who didn't take of any said bullshit.

The following week Chris got numerous calls from Dave and, when he failed to answer or return any of those, his inbox was bombarded with e-mails. Chris didn't open any of them, in some part because he didn't need to hear any more of Dave's feeble apologies, but chiefly because he wouldn't know what to say.

Chris didn't like going into battle unprepared and that was just how he felt at that point, vulnerable. Inexplicably, he wasn't merely enraged or hateful like he usually did when people mistreated him, he simply felt dejected.

He still wanted to see Dave suffer like he usually did, but his fantasies had become wimpy at best. They usually involved stealing his whore, killing his puppy (if he had one) or trashing his room. None of them involved any sort of physical harm and that brought Chris down, like he had become pain-inducing impaired.

What did he have to feel so hurt about? He didn't understand any of it, and as long as it were so he wouldn't feel prepared to make Dave pay.

It was not only the forlornness that had been taking its tool on Chris, but on the eighth day without any action as Red Mist, he was already feeling restless beyond belief. He had never realized how much he enjoyed his alter-ego and the sense of freedom that came with it.

The window was open and the cool autumn air sent chills down his spine again and again. He had been sitting for twenty minutes on his bed, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist and staring at the costume hanging on his wardrobe. The leather had been cleaned and polished; it looked terribly imposing, begging to be worn outside.

He wouldn't do it. He couldn't. If he knew a thing or two about his luck, he would run into Dave at some point and, once out of words, punch him in the face for–– what was it again Dave had done? He had been an asshole, of course.

 

-o-o-

 

“Jesus, Frank! You expect me to just sit here and watch him act crazy?” Angie exclaimed as she paced about the room with her arms crossed. “I'm worried about him.”

“He's got to grow up, Angie, learn his lessons,” said Frank, absentmindedly flipping channels. “When he can control his emotions he'll be a man.”

Angie scoffed.

“Apathy is part of being a man, then? I should have known,” she said with a side glance at her husband.

“Now what are you implying?” Frank sighed and put the remote down. “He's the one who wanted in on–– whatever this is that I won't tell you. He's learning responsibilities, for fuck's sake! Isn't that what you've been nagging me about all these years? See, I'm letting him do things on his own.”

“At what price, Frank?” Angie asked. “He has barely been eating, I don't see him turn off his lights until three in the morning. Something is going on!”

Frank, who had a talent for misunderstanding everything regarding his son, turned off the television and took a more serious demeanor.

“Angie, Chris is growing up. He predisposed himself to do a job for us and he's figuring it out,” he said in the lowest tone he could. “Let him listen to his Sarah McLachlan CD's and whatnot. He'll get things done and everything will be all right. I'll help him along.”

Angie stopped where she stood, rigid. She opened her mouth to speak but had only enough time to rethink her words. She didn't want to get involved, but she knew a thing or two about human feelings. She knew the kind of trouble coming her son's way, even if he himself didn't know their nature yet.

What was worse, she knew well what Frank meant by “helping along”. Chris would get hurt and there was nothing she could do about it because she had this rule about getting involved...

 

-o-o-

 

Chris' phone rang and he jumped onto his feet as a reflex. He picked the device up and saw there was a single message, a single sentence:

MEET ME AT 11. U KNOW WHERE.

Chris threw the phone on his bed. Being bossed around brought back memories of what he hated and the sort of thing he did to people who tried to get him in a corner. He pulled off his towel and reached for his costume. If he wanted to prove he was a man, then he would have to take matters into his own hands. He would go meet Dave, but not at some deserted alley.

By ten thirty he was parked a block down from where Dave lived. A very pathetic neighborhood, in Chris' humble opinion, but it mattered little to him. He found Kick-Ass' house, found his window and was glad enough to find it very climbing-prone.

He planned on jumping in, tying Dave up and punching the hell out of him until he gave up the location of the other super-heroes. Then, Chris would man up and––

The higher he climbed, the clearer the sounds in the room where.

The stereo was on with some crappy, slow music playing. Chris rolled his eyes, Dave was a pussy through and through. There was movement in the room, Dave was there! Chris' heart was already in his throat, every beat of it clear to him, however numerous. Another step and he would be ready to barge in, if he could manage it.

Chris remembered the gun hidden behind his back, he felt it tucked away, shielded by his cape. It gave him confidence, but it also made him tense. Would he use it if he had to?

It didn't matter anymore. It had to be done. Family was the only thing that had ever made any sense to him.

Chris used all the strength in his arms and legs to jump on Dave's window sill. He made an almost perfect landing.

Dave was sitting crossed legged on his bed, back to the window, but he noticed Chris through the mirror in front of him. He looked just dumbfounded for a moment and then fussed with his costume, hands everywhere looking, presumably, for his mask.

“That won't be necessary, Dave,” Chris said.

Dave pulled his mask on anyway, slightly crooked to the side with one of his eyes partially covered.

“Red Mist!” he exclaimed. “W-What are you doing here? I thought we were, I mean, I thought– ”

“Can't even put a sentence together, Kick-Ass? I'm disappointed,” Chris snickered.

“I wanted to talk to you about the other day, it's why I called you, Chris,” Dave said faintly. “I didn't think you'd be so upset and I didn't mean you to be. You know I care–”

“Save it,” commanded Chris. “I'm not here to hear an apology for some shit that went down, like, eight days ago or whatever. Who's counting? I'm not. I don't even remember that shit anymore. This is something else.”

Chris reached behind his back, felt the cold barrel of the .38 caliber and slid down his fingers to the grip.

“I don't know what you're talking about, I thought we were cool,” Dave stammered, looking desolate.

“Nope, we're not cool,” Chris whispered irritably, pulling out the gun and pointing it straight at Dave's chest. “We're definitely not cool. Hands up, c'mon.”

“What are you doing, Chris? Put that thing away!” Dave said.

“Put your fucking hands up, Dave,” Chris commanded between gritted teeth.

Dave took a step back and raised his hands. Chris reached for Dave's computer chair and awkwardly dragged it to the middle of the room.

“Sit you ass down,” he said, waving at the chair with the gun.

Dave took small, slow steps towards it and sat down. Chris' nerves were at their end and it took him all his will to keep it mildly steady. On one hand he was mortified at what he was doing, on the other he desperately searched for fear in Dave's eyes, he wanted to see him suffer like he had thought about since the first time they met. He needed the reassurance.

However, Dave's eyes showed something else. There was something wrong with them, perhaps it was the crooked mask.

Chris reached for Dave's mask with his free hand and set it in place.

The eyes still made him weak in the knees.

They were the strangest blue Chris had ever seen in his life and the fact that they stared at him without an ounce of fear nor a speck of hatred threw him off his guard. Dave's eyes showed Chris exactly what pissed him off so much about Dave, while, at the same time, made the guy strangely appealing: Dave had never judged him, not for a second.

For a kid who was judged every day at every moment since birth, having someone look at him without assuming things was–– amazing.

“Chris, you're being stupid. You can tell me what's wrong and I'll try to fix it,” Dave pleaded. “C'mon, please. I don't know if you know it, but I'm the last person who could want to hurt you. However freakish that may sound, I swear!”

“Hurt me? What am I, a delicate flower?” Chris shouted. “Like you could ever hurt me! You mean nothing to me, you're not my friend!”

Dave averted his gaze, his eyes finally showing an emotion Chris cared about, anguish. Chris grinned and wondered if he was pushing the right buttons.

“I never wanted to be your friend! You're just a loser in a wetsuit who hangs out at a comic book shop every, single, day,” Chris preached. “You're no hero, it's just play pretend. Worse yet, you aren't even good at it, asshole!”

Dave didn't meet his gaze again, nor showed signs of meaning to attempt anything.

Chris didn't feel any of the exhilaration of the previous times when Kick-Ass had gotten hurt, it confused him. Why wasn't he feeling good about Dave's misery? Didn't he want Dave to feel miserable?

Chris couldn't help it anymore, his hands began to tremble. He reached for the gun with his left hand as well, but it was no use, his arms seemed to be flailing everywhere. Dave was completely immobile, yet Chris couldn't shoot him even if he wanted to. It was frustrating, emasculating.

What he hated the most, though, was to be ignored.

Chris held the gun by the barrel and brought it down on Dave's left cheek. Dave's head fell to the side and the outer-side of his mask stained clearly with red, but he didn't budge further than that.

“You're an asshole and a pussy! You've never busted any real criminals, you walk fucking Pomeranians!” Chris shouted, voice shaky, hesitant. “And you're a lousy friend. You–– ”

Chris bit his lip, he somehow couldn't bring himself to say it. He clenched his left fist and landed a precise, metal encrusted punch to Dave's other cheek. Another round stain appeared under Dave's eye and, this time, he spat blood.

Dave slowly looked up. “I must've made you mad somehow, Chris. I swear I didn't mean to,” he said. “I didn't mean to.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Chris commanded, snapping Dave's head back with another punch.

Chris grabbed a fistful of Kick-Ass' mask and yanked it off violently. Blood from Dave's nose and cut lips dripped down his chin and left droplets on his chest.

“You can hit me, I don't mind,” Dave groaned, “If it makes you feel better. Don't hold back, I can take a little pain.”

Chris punched him again. What a smart-ass, spurting out shit like that, like he gave a damn. Chris loathed smart-ass fuckery like that, but if Dave could babble whatever came to mind, he could as well.

“I recognized you. I saw you at the comic book store, not just now, always. This time I knew who you were. You didn't notice me, you never noticed,” Chris said. “You were– groping this chick in plain sight, like you were some kind of Casanova or something. Pathetic! It proved what kind of guy you are, an asshole.”

Dave's eyes widened and he stared directly at Chris, still looking far from angry, far from shocked. He seemed to somehow understand. Chris didn't get what was there to understand, but he could see clearly on Dave's face that he was not confused, he was not pained.

The worst part was, none of Chris' words were essentially true. He didn't believe Dave was a loser, he didn't even think he was an inept hero anymore, Chris admired Dave's unabashed heroism. Chris knew that there were things Dave deserved those punches for, but none of them justified why Chris had been unusually bothered by what happened at the comic book shop, not one. In truth, he didn't dare so much as think of the real reason behind it. The only thing he allowed himself to know was that Dave was not an asshole; He was the most sickeningly nice guy Chris had ever met.

There was, though, one sorry excuse of a human being in that room, of the fucked up kind no less: Chris D'Amico, King of Losers, honorary member of the League of Dipshits.

Chris pointed the gun back to Dave's head, trembling hands and all.

He was the real asshole, the friendless teenager of a dysfunctional family pretending to be an adult, who was so inexperienced with people that the first person who ever showed real compassion towards him he intended on killing, for no real reason other than the simple fact that he loathed the things that friend made him feel.

His father told him to. His 17 year old anxiety to become a man told him to. His logic, even.

Yet, he couldn't do it. The gun was loaded and cocked, his finger was on the trigger, but it wouldn't budge. He willed it to move, to press down and end that exasperated rush of emotion. Nevertheless his body refused to listen.

Dave got up and approached him patiently. Chris wanted to move, but he found himself stoic, frozen in place. Dave grabbed the gun by its barrel and pointed it away. He slid a hand across Chris' waist and under his arm, tugging at his back to pull Chris close in a makeshift embrace.

Chris' eyes widened, his mouth was so dry and his throat felt coarse. He parted his lips and forced sound to come out.

Dave pulled back without retreating his arm and remaining mere inches from Chris' face.

“I hate you,” Chris groaned.

Dave licked his lips and averted his eyes. He doubted, he wavered. Then, as if in a sudden burst of courage, he looked directly at Chris. Dave pressed his lips against Chris', hard but clearly hesitant.

Chris pulled away, gasping as if he had just ran a marathon. Dave, on the contrary, looked plain flustered.

“I hate you,” Chris said again, struggling with the hand still under Dave's grip.

Dave shifted his hold on the barrel to Chris' hand and brought the gun's tip to his own stomach. Chris kept staring at him, unwilling to show how much panic he felt.

“Shoot me,” Dave whispered. “If it makes you feel better, shoot me. I'm an ass and I don't want you to think I'm a pussy anymore.”

Chris was having a very odd day indeed. Even though he considered giving in to Dave's wishes, for, after all, he was literally asking for it, he didn't.

Instead, Chris took the most inexplicable route. He locked lips with Dave again, despite the gun shoved against their stomachs.

Dave wasn't such a Casanova after all, for he had his inexperienced lips almost immobile until Chris began guiding them into what one would actually call a kiss. Chris used his tongue to bid Dave open his mouth and at last taste him fully. He could feel the salty, sticky blood smearing their mouths, but he was beyond the point of giving a damn.

Chris couldn't help it anymore, he had crossed the line and there was no turning back. He was bent on doing everything he felt like. No restrictions, no second guessing himself. Chris placed both hands on Dave's stomach and pushed him as hard as he could. Dave stumbled back and kicked the chair out of the way in the process. Chris charged forward and pinned Dave against his computer desk, one hand at each side of his waist.

Silence dominated the room save for the boys' heavy breathing. Dave looked dazzled as if off a trance, staring at Chris uncertainly. Chris savored Dave's innate vulnerability, allowed him time to wonder what Chris had in store for him next.

Dave was such a pussy.

Chris kissed him again and pushed him roughly against the computer desk, sending piles of CD's and papers to the floor, the poor Macbook escaping an equally terribly fate by mere inches. Dave looked down, startled. Chris frowned and grabbed him by the chin, forced Dave to look back at him.

“M-Mah shtuff,” Dave grumbled, his mouth constricted between Chris' fingers.

“Fuck it,” Chris snapped.

The fact was, neither one of them was experienced enough to know what to do next. They kissed and let their hands roam, but ultimately they got to a point where there was one clear next step, and neither one of them felt inclined to take it first. With the kissing over, the staring began, as was only natural.

Chris licked his lips, tasted Dave's blood on them. He was a bit afraid. He knew a thing or two in the subject of kissing, anything beyond that was presumed at best. He could back away. Dave would probably be glad, he looked so anxious.

Chris took a step back.

But then again, he loved to see Dave suffer.

He grabbed Kick-Ass with aid of the last of strength his shaken confidence allowed him and dumped Dave on the bed. Chris threw himself on top of him, a move not as comfortable as one sees in the movies. There was some knocking of knee against the bed and some brief adjustments, yet overall it contained the desired effect.

Chris was inches from Dave's face, red streaked hair prickling against his cheek. Their bodies were pressed together, Dave's crotch grazing against Chris' thigh in a way that both made him uncomfortable and turned on.

Dave's hand slid between them slowly and he took away the gun that was still firmly wrapped around Chris' fingers, placing it on the bedside table. It was almost a relief. Next, Dave placed his open palm on Chris' face and, smiling like a child who was about to do something he wasn't supposed to, removed Red Mist's mask.

Chris exhaled. When in the world had he drawn in that breath? He couldn't remember, but it was out, along with a large chunk of his sureness. Chris hadn't realized how much of his confidence he had deposited on that over-the-top mask.

“Now what?” Chris whispered carefully.

“Well, I don't know,” Dave answered in high pitched avoidance. “I thought you knew.”

“Clearly I don't! Shit,” cursed Chris anxiously, “We can–– stop.”

Quickly Dave nodded. “Yeah, we can. We definitely could,” he said. “Like, as soon as right now.”

Chris nodded back and tried to roll off the bed before he changed his mind again, except his leather costume made moving a bit difficult under friction and he snagged his leg, which left him in an odd position with his legs wrapped around Dave's thigh. He felt Dave tense up under him and Chris stopped moving. They eyed each other. Dave was actually blushing.

“Is that––?” Dave started, then swallowed.

“Y-Yes,” Chris stuttered. He shook his head and continued more decidedly, “What did you expected, you fuck? Like you're a Ken doll or something!”

“Well, fuck no, I'm not! It's just, I guess I'd never felt another one before and I thought it should be totally weird,” explained Dave, “But it's not. And, well, it's not what's making me embarrassed.”

Chris wrinkled his forehead. “Then what?”

Dave rolled his eyes and sighed and tried a few times to get up, supposedly to run and hide. He sighed again and fell back on the bed. He raised his two hands, palms open, and put them a considerable distance from one another.

“Oh,” Chris gasped. “Oh, no. That's–– no. Smaller.”

“No, it's not,” said Dave decidedly.

“So what if it is?” Chris sighed. “Do you need me to get the measuring tape? Are we going to have a Dick Size Contest now?”

“No!” Dave exclaimed. “Well, if you want to.”

They stared at each other long and hard. Then they started laughing. Chris rolled over to lie beside Dave, the bed was very narrow but they found away to keep from falling, even if they had to keep one leg on floor.

Dave wiped his mouth.

“Shit, that hurts a little,” he groaned.

“Don't be a pussy, Dave,” Chris grumbled. “Sorry for that, by the way.”

“That's okay.”

“And I'm sorry for the stalking thing. I wasn't sure it was you, so I went with it and in the end it turned into this shitstorm,” Chris added. “You were a dick, though.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. It's just, I can't remember a time when I didn't like Katie Deuxma. When she suddenly started liking me back I sort of thought that being with her would fix everything,” he said musingly. “It didn't. Made things a hell of a lot worse, y'know. I still like her in a certain way, but I guess I've changed a lot since the fourth grade, I just didn't know it yet.”

Chris sniggered. “She was probably I lousy lay anyway,” he said. “Probably tried to fuck you in some Hollywood position and you bitched out. For sure.”

“Yeah, you need some freaking strong arms to do it standing up,” Dave pointed out calmly.

Chris' raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Did you fuck her standing up?” he asked nervously.

“Tried to,” Dave admitted naturally. “It worked for, like, 5 seconds and then I kept slipping out and she kept slipping on the rail. In the end she just blew me and we called it a day.”

Chris sulked. He had never fucked a girl standing up. Heck, he had never fucked a girl without having to bribe her with alcohol and Chanel pumps. Dave was slow and a wimp, and he still had a girl who was willing to sleep with him. It was probably those thick ass thighs and the fact he wasn't a jerk like Chris.

Chris laughed to himself. He was rich, he could be a jerk all he wanted.

“Whatever,” he said to Dave at last.

“Whatever,” Dave repeated. “Bros before hos, I'll make sure I remember it next time.”

“At this point it's more like hos before hos,” Chris corrected.

“Excuse me, I'm very classy,” Dave said, with a flip of his curly blond hair for effect.

Chris grinned. “Whatever, man, you're my ho.”

The discussion continued all through the night, the subjects ranging from dicks to chicks. Chris never even brought up the subject of other super heroes, it didn't come to mind. They never discussed their attraction for each other, either, or what that meant in the long run (or in the short run). After all, they were boys and boys never go straight to business when dealing with feelings.

One thing was for sure, Chris had never been more comfortable with someone in his entire life. If he had a choice, he would stay on that bed with Dave forever, just talking nonsense. The real world, however, wasn't so kind.


	3. PART THREE

PART THREE

 

“ I think that somehow, we learn who we really are and then live with that decision. ”

\- Eleanor Roosevelt

 

Chris noticed his mother's eyes on him throughout breakfast. She looked a bit irked as she sat across from him. He took a bite of toast.

“Is everything okay, mom?” he asked cautiously.

“Chris, honey, you were buttering your toast and whistling,” Angie said patiently, “A cheery tune, too. And I never thought I'd live to see you eat raspberry jam either.”

“Oh.”

“And you cooed at your bowl of cereal. You called it, and I quote, holy bowl of iron and omega 3,” she added slowly.

“Oh. I really, really like milk,” Chris explained, trying to sound excited. “Like, big time. I might ask dad for a cow for my birthday.”

Angie turned her attention to her papaya slices and absentmindedly asked:

“An orange orchard too?” She took a slice of fruit to her lips. “You were drinking juice and tapping your feet. Maybe my baby wants to take tap-dancing classes?”

Chris laughed to contain his embarrassment.

“I'm sorry,” said he. “I'll stop now.”

“No,” Angie said with a bright smile. “I'm glad to see you happy, honey. Nothing gives me more pleasure.”

Chris felt his cheeks grown hot. He knew he was blushing and he couldn't help it.

“T-Thanks, mom,” he said before shoving the last of the toast in his mouth. “I gotta go. I'll have lunch out, but I'll be back for dinner.”

“Fine, just call me when you get the chance,” said Angie.

Chris hurried out of his chair with a last wipe of his mouth. As he began rushing away from the table, his mom grabbed his wrist delicately and he stopped.

“Come here. I hope you're not too old to give your mom a hug?”

Chris leaned forward and Angie wrapped her arms around her son, hugging him tight.

“I love you, Chris,” she said.

“I–– love you too, mom,” Chris answered and pulled away.

Chris felt his mother's eyes on him the whole time as he left the room. Her overly caring mood these days made him uncomfortable, as if she knew something about him and wasn't telling, but instead tried to be silently supportive. Since Angie was not by nature very protective, in Chris' opinion, then it meant one of two things: something bad might happen to her or something terrible was going to happen to him.

He loathed the times he acted like a selfish bastard, but nonetheless he couldn't deny he preferred the former.

 

-o-o-

 

Despite the butterflies in his stomach begging for an early arrival to choose a table that favored conversation, with better lighting and easier access to so much coffee he wouldn't think or care about what he said, Chris was fashionably late as was customary of the Very Important People. Dave was already there, to Chris' disappointment, with his two greasy lackeys.

They were sitting at their usual table by the front window with Dave facing the door. When he saw Chris come in, he waved like the dork he was. Chris awkwardly waved back and then decided he would never again wave at anyone in his life. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked up to Dave.

“Hey,” Chris said.

“Hey, Chris!” Dave greeted back. “Guys, this is Chris.”

The lackeys exchanged glances and then nodded at Chris. At least they hadn't waved.

“Hey, man,” spluttered out one of the lackeys, stretching out his hand.

Chris nodded back coolly. Screw those greasy assholes!

“Chris,” Dave said sternly. Chris sighed. “This is Todd and that's Marty.”

Chris ruefully remembered a talk he had with Dave before he agreed to meet them that Sunday.

“You don't want me to come?” Chris had asked, doing his best I Am Very Very Hurt voice.

“No! Shit. I mean, no, I want you to come, it's just,” Dave had licked his lips, “Be nice.”

“Be nice? Be nice? When the hell am I not nice?” Chris had exclaimed. “I'm super nice.”

Dave had stared blankly at him. Chris had succumbed to the reality of things.

“So I'm not nice. Whatever! I'm rich!”

“Just try not to insult or humiliate anyone. Also,” Dave had turned very serious that point, “No weed. We don't do drugs and shit.”

“Weed? I don't––” The first time he met Dave had come to mind. “Oh, sure, whatever. I'll leave my stash at home. I can do that, totally. Everyone knows pot doesn't–– yeah, alright.”

In fact, there had been no weed. Chris bought some “harmless” sort of tobacco and crossed his fingers that Dave wouldn't be able to smell the difference. He wasn't cool even in that regard. Weed made him feel like shit and he wouldn't touch coke with a ten foot pole, so there, he was as boring as could be. The play pretend seemed to have worked, though, and that was all that mattered.

Not all the specifics came to mind, but he was positive he had promised something along the lines of being nice and trying to talk to them–– neither of which he looked forward to very much. Dave had asked, though, and Chris felt inclined to oblige as far as possible.

Chris stretched out his hand to shake Marty's.

“Hello, Marty,” he said cordially.

Apparently Marty was so slow he didn't fully grasp the concept of “hand shaking”, for he slapped Chris' hand as hard as he could and then grabbed it for a sideways wiggled. Chris stared at his defiled hand, now looking a bit red. He had seen young people do that stuff before, it didn't mean he saw any sense in it.

“You know, I never got the appeal of that fucking––” Chris stopped, seeing Dave fidget desperately in his seat. “Those fucking super-hero movie adaptions,” he corrected at the last minute. “Was 'Ghost Rider' really necessary?”

Chris bit his lower lip and then attempted a smile, which came out uncomfortable and forced, like he had forgotten how to do it. The lackeys stared at him in silence.

“Totally, man!” Marty suddenly said with a huge grin. “Of course. I mean, Nic Cage is broke and all, but no need to ruin a perfectly good character.”

“Right, eh, Bobby?” Chris exclaimed back, all part of the game now.

“It's Marty.”

“Oh, sure. Scoot over, Dave.” Dave obliged right away and Chris sat down. “I can't fucking believe they've green lit a sequel. Two seconds online and you'd know it's a craptastic idea.”

“Like 'Hellboy', that one was senseless,” Todd said with a half-snort, half-chuckle.

Chris raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Yeah, such a useless movie and then a pointless sequel,” Marty agreed.

“Excuse me?” Chris began.

Dave kicked him under the table and he tried to hide his outrage against his will.

“'Hellboy' is awesome,” Dave said out of the blue. “Ron Perlman can do no wrong. He was born to play Hellboy. Erase that bullshit about demons babies coming out of Selma Blair and everything's cool.”

Chris held back a grin. He felt he was beginning to like Dave a little bit more every second. The guy had impeccable taste for movie adaptions, it was very charming.

“You shut up, Dave,” said Marty, who Chris immediately labeled a douche for disagreeing with him. “There aren't even any hot chicks in that movie.”

He could already foresee Marty's demise!

Dave, however, chose to roll his eyes, call Marty an “assface” and retreat into his own insignificance. Chris scoffed at that bullshit.

“Yeah, Dave, Marky here really has a point, you know,” began Chris, doing what he did best.

“It's Marty.”

No one dissed Dave on Chris' watch. And no one corrected him either.

“Whatever, Marty. All I'm saying is, it's perfectly within your rights to ask for half-naked girls in movies,” Chris eyed him with pure contempt. “Go watch DoA. It's the only tits you'll ever get to see up-close anyway.”

He was stared at in disbelief.

It then occurred to Chris he was about to get his ass kicked by Dave, who was probably just thinking up the many ways to make him suffer for ruining the outing with Dave's friends. Instead, Dave and the two douches laughed.

“You're a bad motherfucker, D'Amico,” Todd said, nearly choking. “And you're pathetic, Marty.”

“That was classic, Chris,” Dave said, smiling at him like he was proud or something.

Chris grinned. He was so fucking awesome and they were so all so fucking lame. Nonetheless, they were laughing with him and not at him, which in itself said a lot about their character; Perhaps they weren't so bad.

“Okay, you assholes have just earned frappuccinos. On me,” Chris announced. “What can I get you all? And please don't say orange mocha frappuccinos or I'll just up and cancel the gesture.”

They all laughed again and that felt amazing, but Dave's smile at him, like Chris had just leveled up in Dave's opinion of him, was by far more rewarding.

 

-o-o-

 

“Chris, we need to talk,” Dave said when Marty and Tood had gone for more coffee. “I didn't feel like bringing this shit up today, but I can't wait anymore.”

“What?” Chris asked suspiciously. “Talks like these never end well.”

“It's not like that. I got an e-mail from a woman saying she got involved with some fucked up gang. Apparently they're planning a robbery to the bank she works for and she even ended up helping them set the whole thing up by accident, or something. She says she doesn't want anything to do with it anymore, but now she can't go to the police 'cause she thinks they'll bust her too,” Dave explained in a low tone. “And she's right, you know.”

Chris listened, knowing full well what was coming.

“You expect us to do the busting?”

“Well, it's some really important shit,” Dave pointed out. “It would be a good opportunity to do something that matters.”

“Right, Dave. Just tell me again how you intend to bring down an armed robbery in your wetsuit? Oh, right, almost forgot: with your sticks,” Chris mocked.

“I wasn't saying we should do it by ourselves. Batons, by the way, they're called batons. Actually,” Dave lowered his voice further, “I think I know someone who can help.”

Chris chocked on his frappuccino. “W-What? Who?” he asked nervously, despite knowing the answer.

“Remember I told you there were others?” Chris nodded slowly, still coughing. “I'll contact them. They're a little over-the-top, but––”

Dave should have saved his breath and just shut up. Chris wasn't listening anymore, he had left that plane of existence entirely. He stared at the swirls of whipped cream mixed into his coffee and followed them while his brain pondered at the situation at hand. Pondered might have been an overestimation, for at that moment all Chris could think of was how screwed he was, how screwed he was, how fucking screwed he fucking was.

“Chris?”

“Yeah?” he said, at last snapping out of his running in circles mentally, though he still felt dazed. “How you plan on calling them?”

“Uh. We have this system,” said Dave with a contained smile, as if he had just remembered some funny inner joke. “Do you think I should call 'em?”

Chris hated inner jokes. He opened his mouth to answer, but he could not. He tried again in vain. Nodding would have to suffice, for the notch in his throat kept him from being clearer.

“Okay, then. I'll call them. The heist is on Friday, so we have some time to get ready,” said Dave, snatching away Chris' frappuccino and greedily taking the last sip.

After a long time keeping that thought tucked safely away, Chris recalled that he was a lying, opportunist bastard.

But then again, Dave had stolen his frappuccino. Didn't that make things even?

-o-o-

 

Chris had been in a daze for the last two weeks and he hadn't even realized it. The moment the other super-heroes were brought into the conversation it came back to him that there were other things at stake. Part of him wished he had just remained oblivious.

Unmasking the Batman lookalike didn't necessarily mean Dave had to be dragged into that mess, since he had no involvement in the things that had been ailing Chris' father's business. Frank was a rational man, he wouldn't be unfair to someone unrelated to the matter.

Still, it meant revealing to Dave that Chris was a two-faced son of a bitch who had been lying all along about who he was and why he had even seek Dave in the first place.

Chris was standing outside his father's study. The doors were shut and there was idle chatter inside, nothing for Frank to get mad over if Chris interrupted. Still, he lingered outside trying to decide when to barge in, if at all.

This was the moment for walking triumphantly inside with a look of gleeful success. It was the perfect moment for the young Crime Lord's son make his old man proud with his first evil scheme, the one that is bound to take his innocence away, etc.

Walking into that room meant betraying Dave, walking away meant betraying–– everything else. All the things that had kept him from falling apart all those years, any family values he had ever learned, loyalties of every kind.

It was still a pretty fucking perfect moment to earn approval, the Manliness Seal too. He would finally become an adult.

He sighed and opted instead for key lime pie. He would have a gargantuan slice of it and think things over. It was just that simple.

“Thank God I'm only 17,” Chris muttered for his ears only, as he made a bee line for the kitchen.

Three generous slices later, accompanied by two scoops of vanilla ice cream each, and still Chris had no decision in mind. He shrugged it off. He still had nearly four days to decide! Surely tomorrow he would have a better sense of things and a decision would come double quick.

It didn't. It didn't come on Tuesday either, or Wednesday.

Soon enough it was Thursday morning and Chris was mulling over his dilemma during class. He filtered the yammering of the teacher and, as it often happens during a class you should be paying attention to, things came into focus.

“Oh the cleverness of me!” Chris muttered under his breath, giving himself an imaginary pat on the back.

Clearly his father was a powerful enough man to deal with his problems on his own, unlike Dave who was a delicate flower. If lied to, Chris knew Dave would never trust him again. He could not be directly responsible for having Dave's “friends” killed, whereas Frank was experienced enough to avoid any connection to any eventual crimes.

It was as simple as keeping his mouth shut (it always was). He would turn 18 years old in a few months and then he would be a man either way, without even having to try too hard. Though mostly, Chris was willing to do anything in order to keep Dave.

It all seemed righteous, simple and flawless–– like most doomed plans usually do.

 

-o-o-

 

Chris had been so relaxed after deciding how he wanted things to go down, Friday evening arrived sooner than he had expected it to. That evening he had dinner with his mom and dad. Even though he knew he was about to omit the conclusion of the one mission Frank had ever given him, Chris found being cold-hearted was amazingly easy to pull off. He ate and made his usual commentaries, ignored by his mother and underestimated by his father.

“All done,” Chris said, draining his glass of Pepsi. “I'm off.”

Chris wiped his mouth one last time and threw the fine napkin on the table.

“Full night tonight, sweetie?” Angie asked without taking her eyes off her plate.

“Not really,” Chris said absentmindedly.

“No plans, then?”

“Nope. None,” Chris said, hands in his pockets, looking casual and plain. “Hanging out with my friends and stuff. Nothing major.”

Chris bit his lip in an attempt to keep physically his mouth shut. Not because he feared he might let something slip, but because of how easily the lies came out. It had been a recent change in his personality he hadn't noticed before: he was such a bastard he couldn't help himself.

Since no one seemed up to any more uncomfortable conversation, Chris took off with one last self-conscious wave, forgetting completely he had promised himself no more waving at people.

Chris changed into the Red Mist costume and left a few minutes later. Dave sent him a text not long after he drove the car out of the garage, telling Chris he might need a lift to the rendezvous point. He got to Dave's house soon and found him crouched behind some trashcans and a bush, still in plain clothes.

Chris lowered the window. “How much?” he shouted at him.

Dave rushed to the car and tried the door. “Open up, Red Mist,” he pleaded, staring desperately around.

“Don't blame me, it's well within my rights to know the rates,” Chris said with a grin. Dave looked puzzled. Chris distressingly slapped his hands on his thighs. “I'm calling you a whore, Dave.”

“Oh,” Dave gasped, then frowned. “I don't want to be fucking found out, c'mon Chris! Shut up and let me in!”

“Fine, fine.”

Chris unlocked the door and Dave flung himself on the passenger seat, closing the windows as soon as he was inside. Chris couldn't help thinking he was acting like a schizophrenic and an idiot. Who would even make the connection? It was absolutely impossible, Chris assumed.

“Big Daddy sent me the address of a place we can meet at. We leave for the bank from there to put their plan into action,” Dave explained.

Chris cleared his throat. “Just so we're clear, then, this is free of charge?”

Dave looked positively uncomfortable. “Whatever, let's go before someone sees your car. It's not exactly inconspicuous!”

“Oh, Dave, talk big words to me!” he exclaimed melodramatically.

Dave ignored him completely and took to removing his glasses and unzipping his jacket to reveal the Kick-Ass costume. Once he was off his plain clothes he turned to Chris and pulled on the Kick-Ass mask.

“Shut the fuck up, Chris. Let's go.”

Chris faked a gasp of utter shock and then grumpily turned the key, the Mist Mobile's engine roared. Dave rolled his eyes and checked the GPS for the address Big Daddy had sent him and they at long last sped off into the night.

-o-o-

 

Frank had never taught Chris anything useful about being a Crime Lord, not knowingly. After being denied a great many times, Chris assumed he would have to get his lessons on his own through observation which, in time, turned out to be merely an euphemism for snooping around a lot. He also tried to get his hands on all the movies and comic books featuring mobsters, in hope of drawing a picture of what would be expected of him in the future. Chris took them all with a grain of salt, expecting reality to be grittier than fiction, but he soon realized that either those writers had some fantastic sources or Crime Lords read comic books too (for inspiration, most likely).

A few things stood out among the information that seemed fake but that actually was a realistic portrait of the truth. Chris was particularly fond of the abundance of “Tonys” and the poorly executed stake outs. Planning was an art and staking out was also an art which clearly not all mobsters and lackeys had the necessary talent to pull off. Crime Lords were particularly tricky in their planning, often pulling impractical stuff out of their asses and then expecting the lackeys to be able to execute them with perfection–– which they never could.

Chris learned that most plans ended up improvised in some way or another and he tried to let his father in on that observation, but he wouldn't exactly listen to what Chris had to say and seemed quite satisfied with the botched up jobs Mikey kept pulling off. Chris soon came to terms with the fact that he probably wasn't a very good schemer himself and accepted gladly the mere ability of noticing a bad stake out or a poor job.

That evening Chris wasn't expecting to use that one ability of his, yet there it was, parked right across the street from him: a black van in the middle of an empty street that consisted mainly of warehouses and the shady headquarters of a bunch of ghost companies.

They had been sitting in the Mist Mobile for nearly fifteen minutes and Chris didn't feel like letting Dave out just yet.

“What's wrong? We're five minutes late, they're gonna leave, Chris!” Dave cried, staring at the Mist Mobile's watch almost obsessively.

“Well, I'm sorry if I don't feel like getting killed tonight,” Chris answered grumpily. “By the way, don't call me by my name anymore. It's too risky!”

Chris stared at van, then up and down the street. There was no sign of anyone keeping watch on them at that moment. Perhaps the van had little to do with them. Still, Chris kept getting the feeling he was missing some vital, scrumptious detail.

“Look, we'll just run into the building really fast and then things will be fine,” Dave suggested. “I know it's not a set up 'cause they're, well, dirtier than us. I've never murdered anyone like they did, so we have nothing to lose, right?”

Chris grumbled a response, unconvinced.

“Listen, Red Mist. You said it yourself that we've never busted any real criminals. There's no one out there to get us,” Dave said slowly. He suddenly went quiet for a moment. “Is there anyone after you? I mean, there's your dad ––”

“What about my father?” Chris snapped more aggressively than he had intended. He toned down. “I don't know what you've heard, but we run a legitimate business.”

There he went with the lies again, he was sure on a roll. He couldn't have admitted it even if he wanted to, though. Despite his recent shortcomings, Chris was loyal to the basic principles of his family.

His family. Chris hadn't thought much of his current betrayal. The realization of what he was doing had only began to sink in.

“I didn't mean to say it like that,” Dave said coyly. “I've heard these awful rumors and, y'know, they got me thinking things.”

“Don't think 'em, then.”

“I... won't.”

Chris sighed and took one final glance through all the mirrors. The coast seemed clear, maybe they should just go for it.

“Let's go,” he said suddenly, unlocking the doors. “I'm probably just acting schizo like you.”

Dave opened his door and slid his foot outside, but before he actually stepped out he turned to Chris with a tense look in his eyes and tightened lips.

“Just so you know,” he said gravely but still in the soothing frankness that was customary to all of Dave's confessions, “If it were true, I wouldn't mind. It's your dad who would be involved in that shit and not you, which is pretty fucking good enough to me.”

Chris felt a tightness in his chest he couldn't quite explain. “Shit, I–– I appreciate that hypothetical acceptance. Thanks.”

“You don't have to thank me, it's how it should be between us. I mean, it's a given,” Dave said cryptically, “Considering the circumstances.”

Chris pretended to understand and they got out of the car like the subject had been successfully tackled. Dave was already at the doors, whereas Chris had another moment of insecurity when he thought he saw some movement. He shrugged it off, he was just acting paranoid.

They walked inside and the movement sensors automatically turned the lights on. The place looked empty and quiet, save for one metallic clinking sound Chris thought he heard when they walked in. The corridor was lined with doors on both sides, running straight ahead until it met with another row of apartments to the left and to the right.

Paying attention to the numbers on the doors, Chris and Dave took a right and kept walking, activating another light sensor on the way and again hearing the clinking sound. Chris stopped where he was. He had somewhat recognized the sound; It was the hasty closing of one of those metal mail box lids on the doors.

It was a set up. With what purpose he was unsure, but it was one nonetheless.

Chris, more attentive this time, noticed the sound of footsteps inside rooms that were apparently empty and roaring of a car engine only outside the building indicating they meant for a quick but messy business.

He was sure of it: they intended to kill everyone.

“Kick-Ass,” Chris called.

Dave turned around with an inquisitive look on his face. Chris moved close to him, grabbing Dave by the wrist and their faces nearly touching.

“Do you trust me?” Chris asked in a whisper.

Dave stared at him quizzically, then nodded. “I do,” he said.

“We need to go. Right now,” Chris said.

Chris let go of Dave's arm and began walking back to the entrance hall. Dave followed close behind, not sounding like he trusted Chris as much as he claimed.

“A set up?” he murmured to Chris. “But what about them? They don't know! They'll get killed!”

“They can deal with it. I'm not putting my neck on the line for them!” Chris said.

“I'll go warn them, it won't take two seconds,” Dave insisted.

Dave had stopped walking. Chris sighed and spun around. He should have known Dave's stupid heroism was going to be a problem. Dave was looking at him with such intensity he knew there would be no way to change his mind. Dave was clearly bent on doing what he knew would be his doom, considering the people doing the stake out weren't worried about dropping an extra body or two. They would surely wait for Dave to go in, and––

Chris' heart skipped a beat. How could he have let such an important piece of information escape him? If they had meant to get them all in the same place and wipe them out of existence, wouldn't they have done it already? They were being careful about something and Chris knew in his heart the answer.

How could he have been such an idiot?

If he let Dave go by himself he would be vulnerable all alone with the Big Daddy and Hit Girl, the perfect scenario they had been waiting for. Chris looked at the closed mail boxes and appraised the silence. They didn't have a visual. If anything, they had either bugged the place or, which was more likely, they had a scout on the adjacent building watching solely the apartment Big Daddy and Hit Girl were in.

“I'll go,” Chris said at last, his mind clearer than he had expected it to be. “You stay here and wait for me. Don't go outside until we're together, do you understand that?”

“What's going on?” Dave asked in a low voice.

Chris cursed, gesturing wildly at a loss of words. He gave up and began his march towards the stairs at the far end of the corridor before he changed his mind. Dave stood back, watching him go in silence.

“Just do as I say,” Chris said at last, disappearing up the stairs. That should be explanation enough.

When he saw the apartment number he had been searching, Chris stopped a few doors down and wondered if he should warn them at all. If he allowed them to be taken, then his problems would all be solved, his mission's ultimate goal accomplished. Dave and him could escape through the front door without a problem, they wouldn't hinder him. Anything that happened after that wasn't Chris' problem, and Dave would be convinced of that as well.

Chris took a step back. Another lie. He was getting used to that shit and he didn't like how it felt. Chris assumed he should try at least once to do what he had said he would.

Fuck Dave and his contagious heroism.

Chris knocked on the door and Big Daddy answered.

“Red... Mist?” he asked confusedly.

“Yeah. Kick-Ass is downstairs and there's a bunch of guys with guns waiting to get a shot at you and the girl. I don't know how many, but I guess they're all concentrated on the lower levels, if you'd like to try an escape through the roof,” Chris said in one breath, in a rush to get it all out before they realized he was in a secured position. “Sorry for the mess and good bye.”

At that moment Chris heard a hollow yet loud whizzing sound. Big Daddy turned around hastily and just in time to see his daughter get shot on the back and fall on her back through the window.

“Hit Girl!” he screamed desperately.

Chris cursed and ran for the stairs. Doors began bursting open on both sides of the hallway and Chris saw just the men he assumed he would see – all of his dad's best thugs – clutching fucking assault rifles and making it for Big Daddy's apartment. They all ran past him as if he were invisible, looking more than anything desperate to complete their assignment. Chris felt so incredibly stupid for not seeing it coming. He should have known. At least he should have suspected it, yet alas he had not.

All of that to catch one man and a little girl. It somehow didn't feel right.

Immersed in thought Chris had the air punched right out of his chest when he suddenly bumped into Dave at the foot of the stairs.

“Chris, what's going on?” Dave screamed, clutching a baton in each hand. How useful that would be against AK-47s, Chris mused.

“Put those fucking things down, this is way over our heads!” Chris answered anxiously. “C'mon, we need to disappear right now or we're fucked.”

Even chivalrous Dave put his mighty batons away without second thought and followed Chris outside. There were times when it became clear that a costume and good intentions didn't necessarily make a super-hero like in the comic books, crazy enough and stupid enough to jump to their death at the blink of an eye.

Chris couldn't help thinking it might have been best if he hadn't tried to warn Big Daddy, and he promised himself no more trying to follow into Dave's footsteps, for clearly the kid had no idea how unrealistic heroism had become these days.

When they stepped outside there were men standing by the van, yet they showed no signs of meaning to intercept the two of them. Dave was immediately on his guard, hands shooting up to his batons impulsively. Chris, however, knew the men wouldn't try anything. Firstly because they were clearly guarding the back of the van. Chiefly, though, Chris knew Maurice and Marcus had known him since he was a kid and wouldn't possibly attack him or Dave, who was much too close to Chris for a safe, clean shot.

Nevertheless Chris had his eyes glued to them all the way from the door of the apartment building to the Mist Mobile. They looked at him and acknowledged his presence with a nod, but it went no further than that. Chris sat down on the driver seat and exhaled loudly in hope it would stop him from feeling like his legs were made of pudding.

Chris felt an imbecile for being so easily fooled. He wanted nothing more than to hide away somewhere until he felt like less of a failure. Instead, he knew he had to grip that steering wheel with whatever little control and strength he had left in his fingers and drive before they ended caught up in that mess.

“Okay, we're out of here,” Chris told himself for reassurance. Yet, the car wouldn't budge. He urgently turned to Dave, without even trying to hide his desperation. “The car!”

Dave was biting down on his lower lip, looking quite glued to the car seat in an uncomfortable, awkward position as if he were afraid he would get ripped out of it at any second. He stretched out a shaky hand and reached for Chris' right hand, which was gripping the steering wheel like his life depended on it.

“Keys,” Dave said tensely, unhooking the car keys from Chris' middle finger and taking them to the ignition. He turned them and the car started.

Chris remembered the handbrake just in time to avoid a more humiliating escape (if there even was a dignified way of running for one's life), and they sped off into the night for the second time that evening.

“What the fuck happened back there?” Dave tried speaking after a couple of blocks, but soon went quiet again.

As they got further away from danger, Dave began asking questions more leisurely and Chris realized he hadn't thought up the answers yet. He blamed his silence on adrenaline and let his mind dwell a while longer on how to respond.

“Does that mean there was no robbery?” Dave said at length, as if he had just made an amazing discovery.

“No, there wasn't,” Chris answered holding back his snark commentaries.

“I just don't get who those guys were pinning for. They weren't after us,” Dave continued.

He wondered if the two giant thugs calmly watching them escape had been a hint to that or whether Dave had come up with that theory all on his own. Instead of voicing his opinion on the matter, Chris chose to shut his mouth.

“No, they weren't,” was all Chris had to add to the discussion.

Chris sighed and wondered why he didn't get any red lights when he wanted them; his poor legs were beginning to feel like jell-o.

“I have no idea what just went down,” lied Chris when inspiration struck him, “But it makes me think there's someone targeting super-heroes. Sooner or later they would want us out of the picture.”

Chris was sitting there giving and Oscar-worthy performance and Dave remained in silence looking the other way, probably immersed in his own thoughts while simultaneously not giving a fuck. It was a bit frustrating.

“Listen, Dave,” Chris said more urgently.

“What?” Dave pulled off his mask and looked at him at long last.

“I don't know who those thugs were, but they were armed to the fucking teeth and I seriously don't want anyone with that kind of firepower after us,” Chris said in rush. “I'll drop you home and you sit there nice and cozy for a while.”

“What about school? What am I supposed to tell my dad?”

“You're 17. Use your fucking creativity, man!”

Dave rolled his eyes. “You think they'll come after us next?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Chris said, genuinely concerned even if on a different level.

“If they wanted us so much they could've just shot us back there,” Dave pondered, nodding like he had just arrived to a satisfactory conclusion. “They wanted Big Daddy.” His eyes widened. “Hit-Girl! Was she there?”

“Yes,” Chris said. “They shot her in the back, I think she's dead.”

“Fuck.”

“Well, better her than us!”

“That's one fucking awful thing to say.” Dave laughed nonetheless.

After what felt like infinity and then some, Chris took one last turn and finally parked a few houses down from Dave's.

With his brain at last unoccupied with dealing with that damned stick-shift, Chris had time to notice the massive knot in his throat and his involuntarily trembling limbs. It would forever be a mystery how he managed to drive with temporary Parkinson's. He suddenly wished Dave would just go and let him run home to access the situation. That was, if he had any desire to go home at that point.

What would he do? Or better yet, what would his dad do to him? Chris had no idea where he stood in that ordeal and he was honestly somewhat scared to find out.

“Chris.”

“Yeah?”

“Free me,” Dave said.

“Oh,” Chris let his hand rest on the button and the doors were unlocked. That was all the effort he seemed capable of at the moment.

“Chris.”

Chris looked up at Dave, still sitting there on the passenger seat with his curly hair all messed up and already wearing his nerdy glasses.

“Don't worry, it's got nothing to do with us,” he said like he really believed it.

Chris chose to raise his eyebrows and grunt, like he did when he wanted to respectfully disagree completely and still extract a reaction. Dave didn't seem daunted by it, though, he had probably already caught on with that mannerism. He simply pulled on his jacket and zipped it up to the top, before leaning forward and giving Chris an awkward kiss on the lips.

Dave pulled back looking uncertain and his features caught in a semi-frown, cheeks flushed. Such a pussy. But an annoying pussy at that.

“There are a million ways I could kill you right now, so shut the fuck up and go hide in your bedroom 'till I tell you to come out.” Chris scoffed. “Bitch.”

“Now who's an uptight grampa?” Dave grinned slyly.

“How about I jam this stick-shift down your throat? I hate this fucking thing anyway,” Chris suggested sweetly.

“Oh,” Dave fell silent for a second then added dismally, “Now that was really fucking unnecessary.”

Chris was caught between a smile and a laugh. If there was someone who could make you feel peachy after you had just found out you were fucked and probably deader than dead, that was Dave. There were no doubts in his mind anymore. He didn't want to be on anyone's side but Dave's, even if he did invade Chris' personal space on a regular basis.

Chris pulled Dave in for another kiss. Dave's arms around him made Chris feel light and the world around them completely unimportant. Chris trailed his fingers up Dave's neck and gently grabbed a handful of his curly hair, every touch so horribly real to him it made his chest feel heavy as the anxiety built up. He broke the kiss suddenly and stared straight at Dave.

Stupid Dave also had the dreadful talent of making him feel extra shitty for lying too much. Chris wanted so urgently to tell him the truth, but begging for forgiveness was beyond him. He couldn't stop now or all the other lies would come crumbling down and then–– then he wouldn't have Dave anymore.

“I gotta go now,” Chris mumbled.

“Okay. Just–– watch out for yourself,” Dave said, opening the door. “Even if you're probably way safer than I am.”

Chris grinned at the irony. “Yeah, right. Like you wouldn't believe.”

With that, he nodded at Dave –– sticking to his new rule about waving –– and left. All the while Chris was driving away he had a strange gut feeling that told him to turn around. He shrugged it off as a childish whim and kept going. At about halfway from the apartment Chris couldn't take it anymore, his thoughts were clouded by the second guessing. He didn't work well under obsessions, thus is was very likely that he would stand in front of his dad incapable of forming a single coherent sentence.

Chris picked the first open space he saw and parked. There were a few hookers of questionable gender on a street corner nearby, so he took off again until he found a less intimidating area. After he found it, Chris pulled out his cellphone and pondered one last time if he should give in to his mania. He speed dialed Dave.

Ten rings later, Dave didn't pick up. Chris tried once more without success. Dave was just taking a shower or something, Chris told himself. He didn't really believe it, though. After two more tries Chris had had enough. His gut feeling might as well have been right for once.

Chris pulled out of the parking space and drove into the night for the third time that evening and it was barely eleven o'clock. His heart was beating fast and that leather was not being kind to his sweating armpits. He remembered Dave mentioning his father wasn't coming home that night and that thought somehow made him more worried. Chris saw Dave's house from a distance and how awfully dark it seemed, not of the kind when the household retires for the evening, more like a disquieting, misplaced darkness that covered all rooms and the front porch.

Chris parked in front of Dave's house unceremoniously and stepped outside. The front door was wide open.

Chris ran, forgetting all about car keys, alarms, guns and nearly everything else in the world. He walked up the front porch and entered the house. It was dreadfully quiet, uncomfortable. Chris took one step and felt his boots were sticking, making squishing noises against the floorboards. He looked down and saw there was something on the sole of his shoe he couldn't quite distinguish. Chris felt for the switch and the lights went on in the living room.

Chris' boots were stained with blood. He looked back and saw a trail of red on the front porch's steps and when he turned his attention to inside the house again he realized the furniture was turned. The couch was knocked over and the lamp that usually stood beside it was smashed on the floor. Chris ran for the stairs and he cringed at the smears of blood on the walls and on the banister.

He dashed up the stairs and went straight for Dave's room. The door was closed and there was a huge, bloody smear on the doorknob. Chris pushed the door with his foot and it swung open with ease. Chris went entirely numb.

For the fleeting, brief moment it took for the door to swing fully open and for him to step inside, Chris had already found a thousand ways how it was all his fault. He wished over and over in his mind that it weren't true, that the one thing he feared the most hadn't happened. His ears were ringing and everything around him felt as if in a dream world, the details too vivid for his liking.

There was no body.

Chris exhaled with a grunting noise. Relief only lasted another of those seemingly longer seconds.

The whole room had been trashed. The mattress was on the floor and the bed covers were stained with blood. All of Dave's clothes, books and CD's were scattered on the floor, looking stomped and ripped. The only thing that appeared intact was the computer desk itself where Dave's Macbook lay, as if completely untouched, turned on. Chris approached it instinctively, still unable control his movements properly.

The screen was divided in two: on one half was Red Mist's website, on the other a page that declared “Kick-Ass Unmasked”. There was a cam window on the website, an embedded video, though it only showed two empty chairs side by side. Chris' stomach turned, he knew what that meant. He also knew where that place was because he actually paid attention to his father's business, even if Frank himself didn't mean him to.

Realization sunk in and Chris began regaining control over his limbs and his conscience.

The broken window explained the lack of chair, but it didn't explain why none of the neighbors had called the police. Or perhaps the police just hadn't arrived yet. Chris snatched the Macbook from the desk and ran.

That had been the last straw. He could have dealt with the excuse of them having just been caught in the crossfire of Frank's shady, ulterior motives, but he would not have that bullshit. He would not quietly sit back and enable someone meaning to harm Dave, who was but a comic book geek and simply the most idiotic, insipid, uptight, wonderful friend Chris had ever had.

Chris couldn't let him die now of all times! Just as he was beginning to understand the twisted love he had for that pussy, Dave.


	4. PART FOUR

PART FOUR

 

" There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness but of power. They are messengers of overwhelming grief and of unspeakable love. "

\- Washington Irving

-o-o-

Chris had been underestimated from birth, that much was undoubtedly true even if the underlying reasons why Frank and Angie had resorted to that were at least partially noble. But the fact remained Chris had never actually tried to step out of the emotional safety net and show his potential. It was much more comfortable for a teenage boy to stay home minding his business, reading his comic books and avoiding anything in world that could have hurt him.

It had taken Chris 17 years and quite a few months to experience, in merely a handful of weeks, all the emotions he had deprived himself of all those years. The effect of that rush of feelings on such a sheltered boy were explosive. There was too much he wanted to do in too little time and with zero preparations or actual maturity to perform them to the best of his abilities.

Therefore, yes, Chris might have been to blame for playing right into his dad's hands when he assumed his own last few decisions hadn't been predicted beforehand. Deep down he knew that all along. There just wasn't much way out of those traps that he could perceive.

Chris was a pile of nerves by the time he arrived at the warehouse. There was hardly a single cohesive thought in his adrenaline pumped brain, it was all about scattered impulses at that point.

The warehouse looked absolutely deserted from the outside. Chris knew, though, that the windows were just for show and the entire place was soundproof. He parked at the back without ceremony and reached for the single 9mm he kept under the driver's seat. He hesitated for a second, wondering what his dad would think of him going in armed. Chris shrugged. If anything, his father would judge him horribly if he went in unarmed, so he decided to take it.

He tucked the gun away behind his back, concealed by the cloak, and marched to the door. If his father had still a single ounce of common sense in him, Chris assumed, he would have a guard at the door watching the approximately 25 security cameras. Unsurprisingly, Maurice opened the reinforced steel door to greet him.

Chris tried the “nod and walk right past the help” routine, except it didn't work. Maurice barred his way with a single outstretched arm, which was quite sufficient to break Chris in two.

“I need to speak with my dad,” Chris said. “I know he's in there.”

“Yeah he is, and he's waiting for you.”

Chris shrugged, slightly taken aback by the crushing of his element of surprise, but he could live with that. Maurice, however, still hadn't moved out of the way.

“Well?” Chris raised an eyebrow. “Going to let me through or what?”

Maurice chuckled. “Yeah, sure,” he said, removing his arm.

Chris puffed his chest and walked right in with a Dramatic Fling of his cape. As soon as he turned his back on Maurice, Chris felt a hand at his back. He turned around hastily to find Maurice spinning the Glock in his massive hand.

“No guns inside. Daddy's orders.” The bodyguard grinned.

Chris shrugged and kept walking like he didn't give a damn. Meanwhile, his stomach was turning flip-flops and trying to tell him how bad an idea this whole thing was. Suddenly Chris heard a manly grunt followed by a whimsy scream.

Sometimes sounds can trigger memories and help one make immediate and involuntary connections to known things, situations, people...

“Dave!” Chris exclaimed to himself.

Chris found the sliding steel doors that divided that area of the warehouse and the one where he assumed the scream came from. They were locked. His only option left was to walk up a set of metal stairs that led to a wide suspended platform that overlooked the area beyond. Chris winced, part of him still wished he wouldn't even need to face his dad, and rather just run in, grab Dave and run out again.

It took him another high-pitched cry to realize there was no more time and no more options. Chris took a deep breath and climbed the shaky stairs.

As he had anticipated, Frank and another bodyguard were on the far right end of the rectangular platform. His dad soon noted his presence and nodded for the thug next to him to leave. Chris' head was spinning and only several deep breaths were needed to keep him standing up straight.

“Dad,” he began coyly.

Frank had his hands in his pockets and a bemused look in his face, like he had known all along how things were going to end. Chris could see clearly at last: he knew all about his son's devotion to him and he played it gladly. Chris had never thought of challenging that, and he was honestly scared of trying even now.

Chris kept walking towards him entirely out of lack of options. He was shaking and he didn't know what to say. His dad had always known best. Chris had always blindly trusted his judgment, he had no argument against him aside from his own opinions and Chris knew those mattered little to his father and the greater good he defended.

Chris' eyes wandered to the level bellow, something was drawing his gaze. Big Daddy was sitting facing a camera and surrounded by thugs. Beside him was a douche in a green wetsuit, his head limp and already looking pretty roughed up–– it was Dave, of course. One of the thugs grabbed Dave by the fabric of his mask and some of his hair underneath and raised his head. He yelled things at him that Chris could barely distinguish, then punched him hard. Dave gave a half grunt, half flimsy screech and his head fell down again.

Chris turned his attention back to his father.

“Chris! How nice of you to join us,” Frank bellowed.

Chris couldn't help thinking how many times he had heard that line before. Apparently, reality echoed the clichés of the stories. Except now it wasn't a just another story, it was his own life for a change.

“Why did you bring him in, dad? This is fucking insane!” Chris exclaimed, though his voice was still weak as if half the sound had gotten stuck in his throat.

“It's all about sending a message, son. A little media can do wonders these days. No one knows who the big motherfucker is, so we had to improvise,” Frank said with his usual simplicity.

He loved his dad. He had followed him blindly up to that point, but no more.

“Cameras, dad? Really?” Chris said indignantly. “AK-47's to kill little girls?”

Frank didn't seem too bothered by Chris' miniature rebellion. “You don't know what you're saying. That girl was a menace,” said he quite patiently.

“Still,” Chris mumbled, realizing that his dad definitely had a point, “Still, it's not the point. The point is, you do what you've got to do and I understand that. But this isn't fucking fair.”

“Don't you fucking tell me about fairness, Chris. This is a business we're running here,” said Frank, not quite as patiently as before. No one touched his business. “You really want to be part of my business or not?”

Chris hesitated, slightly under the impression he had heard that before. It was probably only a dejà vu, but the question weighted heavily on his mind like it had some sort of vital importance, almost as if it carried a mystical power that could change everything. Yet he couldn't quite put his finger on what that hunch meant.

“Frank, we're ready to go,” shouted one of the lackeys. “It's best you get outta here soon.”

“Right, I'll just stay for the opening credits,” Frank answered with a chuckle. He turned to his son at last. “What about you, Chris?”

Yeah, what about Chris?

“No,” Chris said, though the word had sounded more decided and much fiercer in his mind. “No, I won't stand here and watch shit like that go down. I can't, dad.”

“This is not a fucking joke, Chris,” Frank insisted. Now that was how one spoke with confidence, Chris thought dismally, it sent chills down his spine. “You do as I say and stay the fuck out of this!”

“See, that nearly made my knees shake, but I'm all better now,” Chris said, leaning on the fact he hated to be bossed around. “Fuck yeah I'm getting involved!”

“You're going to regret this, son. I'm telling you this for your own good,” Frank said in a tone a great deal less menacing that reminded Chris how much he cared about his dad. “No good can come out of this. You weren't born to be no fucking hero, and you're about to learn that the hard way.”

Chris swallowed hard. He was way past the point of no return. If he didn't go for it, he would regret it for the rest of his life. Hero or no hero, he had to help Dave.

“I'm sorry, dad.”

Chris rushed past Frank to the other set of metal steps that led to the area bellow. His dad didn't try to stop him at all. The stairs shook violently the faster he tried to climb them down, but fear of heights was the last thing on his mind. Chris jumped off on the last couple of steps and allowed himself only a single second to straighten out his mask.

“... repeat after me, batons,” one of the thugs was saying right before they began beating Kick-Ass and Big Daddy to a pulp.

Dave's high pitched screams echoed in the warehouse. Every time he gave a pained grunt, Chris whimpered along with him. Chris' heart beat faster and faster, trying to come up with a good enough plan.

As Chris charged towards them, the other thugs standing behind the cameras didn't so much as budge in his direction. Since it couldn't possibly be out of respect, they were probably under orders from Frank. Chris saw it as a fault to be exploited.

For a moment Chris remembered fondly his 9mm Glock, but then he found a shelf full of metal pipes and felt right at home. Unsure whether the lackeys would keep to their orders or not, Chris grabbed one of the long pipes and ran kamikaze-like right to the middle of the fun. He jumped in front of Dave brandishing the pipe as a kendo sword and waved it around, ignoring the fact his desperate antics were being broadcast worldwide through the internet.

“Get back!” Chris shouted. “You won't dare to fucking touch me, I know you won't! Get back!”

All movement ceased for a tense second while the thugs eyed each other uncertainly. The main lackey, whose identity Chris hadn't been able to figure out, spun the baseball bat around in his hand and laughed.

“Sorry to say,” he said, with a look back at the camera that meant he wasn't sorry in the least, “The orders won't cover your ass from the point you start getting in our way. Boys, go right ahead!”

“What!” Chris turned around hastily.

One of the thugs behind him hit Dave again with a baton. Chris saw a spray of blood hit the front of his costume as Dave screamed again.

Chris brandished his metal pipe more confidently now that he knew he would have to fight.

“Put that stick the fuck down, you motherfuckin'––” Chris began shouting when he heard a weak voice.

“Go away.”

Chris' gaze met Dave's for the first time.

“Hell no! Of course not!” Chris answered indignantly.

“Go away,” Dave mumbled, blood and spit dripping freely from his parted, swollen lips. “I don't want your help. Leave me the fuck alone!”

Chris was about to diss him for trying to squeeze some theatrics out of the situation, but Dave was staring at him, out of all possible emotions, with scorching contempt. It hadn't been a comic book inspired line at all: Dave meant it. Chris' breath was caught in his throat.

Chris eyed the thug who had just hit Dave.

“You fat fuck!” Chris shouted, switching his focus before he began thinking things and he was incapacitated from doing the right thing. He tightened his grip on the metal pipe. Said fat fuck's eyes widened.

“Dude, excuse you, I'm way under one ninety!”

There were thousands of sensible ways Chris could react to rejection. He didn't feel particularly bent on thinking of those at the moment, though, so he caved in to the next best thing when one has no idea what to do: he kicked someone's ass.

“One ninety what? Kilos?” Chris raised an eyebrow and laughed cinically.

“No!” cried the thug indignantly. “Pounds. What the fuck is kilos?”

Chris took a sideways step to stand between the two chairs and charged at the fat thug. Fat Fuck blocked it with the baton and laughed in Chris' face. Chris was no Frank, but unfortunately for the thug, Chris was still his father's son.

Chris slid the metal pipe to the right. Disengage, he thought. Just as the thug attempted to block him again, Chris spun the pipe in a clock-wise motion. Evade. Before the bastard had time to think, Chris brought the pipe down on his left knee. And counterattack!

“You little shit!” Fat Fuck cried, tears in his eyes, sliding to his knees.

Chris landed yet another blow, this time to the man's head, incapacitating him at once. There was another split second of dumbfounded silence. Chris was breathing heavily. That had felt fucking incredible!

“C'mon you shitheads!” Chris shouted, flooded with confidence. “I'm right here!”

They were all coming at him so mercilessly there was no more time to think about technique. Chris swung the pipe with only as much skill as he could muster. Most hits landed half assedly, though still somewhat effective, whereas other didn't land at all and left Chris' guard completely open. He had no idea how many of them there were, they seemed to be everywhere. He knew there was one asshole busy pouring fucking gasoline on Dave and Big Daddy, but apart from that, he had basically no idea what was going on.

Soon enough Chris reached a point where his arms were flailing everywhere, he no longer had any concentration or strength. His hands and lower arms hurt horribly, the pipe was loose in his hand. One dreadful last hit was all it would take to throw the pipe off Chris' hands. He staggered back, clenching his fists to pretend he had a little dignity left in him.

The main thug chuckled at him and, with one swift spin of his baseball bat, pretty much ruined every chance Chris had of perpetuating his lineage.

Chris doubled over in pain and slid down to the ground, his face stuck in a open mouthed though soundless scream of pain. If he hadn't been mourning the passing of his Mini Chris, he'd probably find it a very comic book-like scene and chuckle like the geek he was.

He was on the ground, but that didn't keep the crooks from continuing to beat him mercilessly. The first few hits made him scream louder than he had ever thought himself capable of. However, soon enough nothing hurt anymore, his body and his mind both went numb. He grunted when the air was punched out of his chest with every baseball bat hit, but he was no longer feeling the pain. His mind was elsewhere, it was on more important, comforting places.

Chris remembered his childhood, happier times when the grown up world didn't have any importance in his life and choosing to root for Spider-Man or Doc Ock was the only dilemma he was ever faced with.

Chris remembered his mom's cold hugs, and then he remembered the infrequent warm ones too.

Chris caught a glimpse of all the movies he had watched with his dad and how they had laughed at the cliches and eaten junk food like there was no tomorrow. Oh, Doritos and Pepsi and Twix.

Then, there was never-ending warmth. There was Dave. Chris could remember clearly all their talks and their missions and the kindness with which Dave treated him, never asking for anything in return. Most of all, he remembered that last kiss they had shared and the feel of Dave's curly hair tangled around his fingers.

The world was cold again. It was ironic that when life has meaning one is actually forced to deal with the bad stuff to get to the good stuff. The baseball bat hurt again, the batons were a pain in the ass (perhaps a little too literally) and there was very little dignity in the way he was taking his beating, curled up in fear. They stopped hitting him for a moment, something else was brewing.

Chris lay sprawled on his back and he looked up at Dave. Their eyes met for a brief second.

Chris winced. He was such a crook, such a liar, such an asshole.

“Boys, it's time,” called the main thug. He pulled out a lighter. “If the Goblin King over here wants to burn along, be my guest.”

Chris groaned bitterly. Reality was so fucking dreary.

Dave was sobbing like the little bitch he was. Chris was baffled by Dave's total disregard for seeming like a humongous pussy on the internet, but Chris also pondered that he himself wasn't quite so ready to die yet, and crying did come to mind as a fitting reaction to impending death.

If only his entire body didn't hurt like hell, perhaps he could crawl away...

The main thug clicked the lighter. “Gentlemen, it's time to die.”

There was a single high speed velocity shot and the thug dropped to the ground. Chris didn't understand anything that came afterwards, and he quite preferred it that way. Ignorance was fucking bliss.

The only thing he did hear was a shower of bullets all around. His survival instincts kicked into gear and, ignoring the numbing pain in his legs, Chris began crawling in Dave's direction. He stretched out his hand, tried to reach Dave's ankle, but it seemed so very far away. Chris felt a spray of something wet and sticky land on his face and immediately after the body of a thug dropped right beside him. He whimpered and was nearly overcome with the will to give up, play dead right there on the floor and send the whole world to hell.

The lights were off except for a blinking flash of light that made it hard to concentrate. Chris painstakingly crawled some more to at last reach Dave. He knelt up and untied Dave's hands.

“C'mon,” said Chris bluntly.

The shots had ceased briefly, but the flashing lights continued. Dave stared at him, still sat down and without an ounce of trust in his eyes. Suddenly there was a louder series of shots and Dave jumped in his chair.

“Let's go,” he said meekly.

“You'll only trust me under the promise of impending fucking death,” said Chris, nodding slowly. “I won't even try to pretend I'm not wounded, man.”

Dave ignored him completely. Chris got up and took the lead towards the sliding metal doors on the far right, which was an interesting enough journey considering they were both limping, tripping and bleeding their way through a miniature war zone. The burning mess that had once been Big Daddy was somehow still alive, but they had no time to save him, they could barely even save themselves. Chris reached the metal doors at last, spreading his arms and slamming against it, wishing it were a “save point” he could reload to later if things went south. The unrealistic relief was only momentary, though. Dave was right behind him and, as soon as he reached to sliding doors, began fumbling with the lock. His hands were shaking so badly he was barely managing to turn the keys that were conveniently still attached to the lock.

“Seriously?” exclaimed Chris, slapping Dave's hand away and turning the key himself with one swift motion.

They slid the doors open and started another run/limp towards the backdoor exit. Chris wondered if Maurice was still there, or worse, if his dad was too. For a second he wished Frank would be, Chris just wasn't used to feeling this exposed and endangered.

On a closer inspection, Maurice was gone and there was no sign of Frank. Dave was the first to reach the parking lot with his wide steps. Chris followed, propping his back against the door frame trying to catch his breath.

“I–– holy shit,” Chris panted. “I don't know if I'm imagining things, but–– internal organs? What internal fucking organs? Shit.”

Chris felt like his insides had turned to mush. A mush filled with pinneedles, to be more specific. His body hurt in so many unthinkable places he couldn't focus on anything in particular. Chris was shocked someone could feel like the back of his ears was on fire. Chris closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, wishing that by opening his eyes he would be back home on his couch with a pile of comic books, the television on in yet another showing of “Spider-Man 2” and his parents with him. That is, when Chris' opinion of them wasn't tainted with distrust.

Chris exhaled. His legs were still feeling the strain of the beating, there was no change at all. Maybe if he tried opening his eyes...

Chris felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed to the side of his temples.

“Shit.”

Chris opened his eyes and looked at the purple haired little shit.

“Don't fucking move,” Hit-Girl said between her gritted baby teeth.

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” Chris said, nonchalantly.

The safety lock went off. “My mom is dead,” she answered.

“Oh.” Chris spun slowly to face Dave. “That explains a lot, actually.”

Dave was standing in the middle of the parking lot, also struggling to breath evenly. He never voiced any protest, he simply stood there looking beaten and dull. Hit Girl tapped at the back of Chris' head with the gun and he began walking towards Dave with clenched fists, not feeling too fucking hot at the moment to be nice or merciful to anyone at all.

“Are they're all dead back there?” Dave asked with his usual insecurity.

Chris felt compelled to answer, but Hit-Girl beat him to it. The little twerp. Red Mist was the trusty ally here!

“Yep, pretty much,” she said, finally stopping when they were a couple of feet away from Dave. “There's just this motherfucker left.”

Chris rolled his eyes at Dave, making an incredulous face. “She's such a feisty little controversy! The papers are gonna love her,” he said. Dave's expression didn't change. That was odd, he used to laugh at Chris' tasteless jokes before. More specifically, a few hours before.

“Don't shoot him, Hit-Girl,” said Dave decidedly, approaching them both, walking closer to the light. Chris could see Dave's eyes at last. He wished he hadn't. “Red Mist knows what he did.”

“Oh, thanks a bunch your majesty,” said Chris angrily. “Who the fuck do you think you are, Dave? Who the fuck do you think I am?”

Dave averted his gaze. “Let's go.”

“Silent treatment? You're such a girl, Kick-Ass!” Chris clenched his fists and thought of how much he wanted to see Dave cry right now. “I saved your life! If I ever did anything wrong, then I think that pretty much makes up for it!”

Hit-Girl retreated the gun and joined Dave as they walked away. The Mist Mobile's lights blinked, the alarm was off. Chris' hand shot straight to his pocket: the keys weren't there! The midget bitch had them and was spinning them on her finger.

“Oh fuck no, you won't!”

Chris tried to run towards them, but he had officially finished busting his legs and running was made absolutely unbearable. He winced, watching wretchedly as Hit-Girl took the wheel of his car and he couldn't do anything to prevent it.

“So that's it? You're leaving me here?” Chris shouted, desperation washing over him.

He hadn't done anything. He had opted out his father's mess.

He had chosen Dave!

“You have to listen to me, Dave. You don't know the whole story, I didn't do anything. I was supposed to, but I didn't!” Chris shouted louder.

Dave stood with the Mist Mobile's passenger seat door open. He seemed like he meant to speak, his thick pink lips partly open in a way that made him look both dumb and thoughtful. He closed his mouth before he said anything.

Chris stammered, he had so many things he wanted to stay, yet it was hard to even catch a breath.

“No!” was all he managed to splutter out.

Dave paused as he sat down on the passenger seat.

“I can't trust you anymore,” said Dave gloomily as he slammed the door.

“I didn't do it, Dave! You have to fucking believe me this time, you always believed me!” Chris shouted despite his lack of breath. “Is it because I wear fake hair? 'Cause I can take it right off, you know, you fucking asshole!”

They ignored him and were driving away unconcernedly. Chris couldn't run and he couldn't even shout loud enough, but he tried both just the same. He managed to follow the car from a distance for a few yards and that was all.

“Dave, don't you fucking leave me here. You can't do this, I didn't do anything! Dave! DAVE!” The lump lodged in his throat wouldn't let the words come out right, his voice was coarse and low and weak.

They were gone.

He had let down the only person who ever trusted him and there was no going back.

Chris fell to his knees. There was nothing else he could do, but oddly that wasn't what hurt the most; he had, after all, been powerless most of his life. The unfairness was what stung, the absolute irrationality of it all. Why wouldn't Dave listen to him? He wasn't to blame, he had tried to protect Dave the whole time. He had put his own life and everything he ever cared about on the line and what for? He could deal with being despised and loathed. What he couldn't live with was that one look of contempt in Dave's eyes when Chris had stood between him and a crowd to protect him and was still mistrusted. He had wished Chris dead with those blue eyes that had never judged him before. What a wretched time Dave picked to be intolerant.

Chris felt his eyes welling up. He tried to hold back the tears, but they just wouldn't stop blurring his vision. He ripped the mask off his eyes in claustrophobic desperation and pulled off his red, spiky hair and threw it to the ground.

He was done for. In the middle of nowhere, of all places. What a lucky day.

Chris had never felt so exposed or so dejected. His parents had protected him of such maiming feelings. There was no going back now, this was the end.

He got up and began to limp his way towards a more crowded street. He had no desire to go back to the warehouse, nor did he wish to stay in parking lot freezing to death. Walking in middle of the street dressed in a leather bodysuit and covered in blood probably didn't show Chris' cleverness at play, but it was better than if he had frozen up. He would avoid any police cars just in case.

That thought had only just flickered through Chris' mind when he noticed lights and the sound of an engine running, and it was not “in the distance” but in fact only a few yards behind him. Part of him willed Chris to hide closer to the shadows of the buildings, unfortunately he was not in a state of mind that privileged quick reactions. He wouldn't allow himself to admit it, yet there was also another side of his conscience that wouldn't let one last flicker of hope go out just yet. Hope of... forgiveness? Why would he need to be forgiven for doing the right thing? Still, maybe, just maybe...

The car pulled over right beside him. The passenger's side window was rolled down. Chris stopped walking on reflex, his lips uttering a surprised sound involuntarily.

“Come on in, Chris,” said Frank solemnly.

Chris bit his lower lip and made his way to the car without a second thought. He sat down beside his dad. Gladness filled his heart and, in turn, the last weak flame of that old hope went out.

“Hi, dad,” he said weakly.

“Hello,” Frank answered with a smile. “I'm sorry it had to be this way. We'll take you to our doctor, you'll be fine.”

Chris nodded complacently. The limousine was so warm and the exquisite leather seats felt welcoming, nearly as welcoming as his father's warm smile. Chris looked down in shame and regret.

“Things didn't go so well back there, huh?”

Frank shook his head. “No, they didn't. But that comes with the territory,” said he. “Do you think you can handle it?”

Chris looked up, licked his chapped lips while he looked for something to say.

“What do you mean?” he asked at last.

“I mean, I can see now that my son is beginning to shape up into the kind of man I hoped one day would take over this business,” Frank said patiently. “Do you agree?”

“Sure, dad! I–– I might not be ready for that shit just now, but,” Chris tried to grin and his face hurt like hell, facial expressions would have to be kept to a minimum for a while, “But I feel like I want to learn to be ready first.”

“Good,” Frank said. “That's all I wanted to hear.”

Chris stared out the window, searching for something to get his mind off things, instead the shadows on the dimly lit street corners brought no comfort whatsoever. Chris looked down at his lap.

“I'm sorry for the mess,” he added meekly.

“Nothing to be sorry about. Just try to learn your lesson, that'll do,” Frank responded with astonishing calmness. “I assume you learned your lesson?”

Chris licked his bloody lips, tasted the saltiness in them. They didn't hurt much anymore, they had grown practically numb, but the taste brought back memories Chris didn't quite care for at the moment.

“Yeah, I guess,” Chris said wistfully. “Fool me once...”

Frank laughed. “That's a good one,” he said, taking a hand to his son's shoulder and squeezing. “Now let's go patch you up.”

Chris nodded, stifling a painful grunt.

He didn't agree with all of his father's methods and perhaps he never would. Slowly, though, Chris thought he was beginning to see the reason behind them and even learning a thing or two about “ends” and “means”. Sometimes, he realized, there was no use treating someone with fairness when it wouldn't be reciprocated.

Chris sighed. His ribs hurt so fucking bad. He felt so guilty he couldn't yet look his father in the eye, despite Frank's comforting sympathy.

Chris clenched his fists, clutching the leather of his pants.

All he wanted was to go home.

 

-o-o-

 

He was in a dark room. Or something. He wasn't really sure it was a room at all, it was more along the lines of–– a lot of darkness. It felt like darkness as well, cold but still terribly inviting. He could just sit there and wallow in it for ages, there was so much to think of, so many things to regret.

Then there was Dave, staring at him in his plain clothes and stupid smile. “Hey, Chris,” he said in his stupid, coarse little voice.

“H-hey, Dave,” Chris answered, shivering.

“Come,” said Dave. “It's warm over here.”

Chris faltered, doubting that walking a few feet would make him warmer. Dave was still staring at him as if he didn't sense Chris' hesitation at all, beaming stupidly like he often did. He sure looked warm and inviting. Dave stretched out a hand. Chris went to him without another thought, he wanted that warmth, eager for his acceptance.

When Chris finally closed his hand around Dave's the darkness was no more, the world was all light and waves of warmth. Chris looked up and nearly felt like smiling, just like he used to when he was 5 years old and happy. Kick-Ass stared back at him, grinned wickedly. Chris gasped and tried to snatch his hand away.

“Too late.” Kick-Ass twisted Chris' arm painfully and brought him to his knees. “Let's see if liars can cry.”

Kick-Ass hit him in face once, twice, thrice. Chris spit bloody saliva.

“No!” Chris shouted and that only made Kick-Ass hit him again, now with one of his batons. Kick-Ass raised his baton mightily in the air and paused to catch Chris' eye. “What!”

Did those little sticks use to have spikes like that?

Blood sputtered out everywhere. The metal spike pierced Chris' cheek and he awkwardly screamed.

Chris' eyes filled with tears, but he wasn't about to cry, it had merely been a natural reaction to pain. Chris would have felt like crying if he thought he didn't deserve it, but alas he did deserve it all.

“I'm sorry, Dave, I'm so fucking sorry,” he whimpered, closing his eyes tightly shut.

“Shut the fuck up,” was Kick-Ass' monotone response.“God. I fucking hate you.”

Kick-Ass grabbed Chris by the collar of his shirt and dragged him up and off his feet with amazing strength. Chris could feel Kick-Ass' breath on his face and it reeked of blood and death, their faces were mere inches away. It was so hot, scorching almost. Chris opened his eyes.

Red Mist laughed manically back at him and dropped him to the ground.

“You little shit! You shitty little liar!” Red Mist said between hysterical laughs. “Everybody knows you're a faggot. The whole world knows you're a useless piece of shit, even your mom, even your dad. He knows better than to let his fuck up of a son near his business. If you ask me, Dave's right: you're better off dead.”

Chris clenched his fists and sprung to his feet, punching Red Mist square in the jaw, then in the stomach. When he didn't fight back, Chris kept punching and kicking until Red Mist fell on his ass on the ground, wiping blood off his lips and laughing and holding his stomach.

“Fuck you!” Chris shouted desperately. “You ruined my life! You're no better than me!”

Red Mist ceased his laughing and looked up at Chris, nibbling at his busted lip, drawing more and more blood, lapping it away like he was enjoying it. Red Mist ripped the black mask off his eyes and let his mouth hang open, let the blood drip out of it unrestricted. He curled his tongue upwards teasingly, grinning.

“Chris, you're so fucking dumb. I'm you,” Red Mist said. “You fucked up your own life. Deal with it, you shit. You lost the only person who ever gave two shits about you. Fuck you. You can't change who you were born to be.”

Chris dropped to his knees. Part of him was fretting over the truthfulness of the assertion, the other laughing at the irony of the Evil D'Amico Gene. The world began spinning, he felt he was going to faint at any second. Red Mist blurred and faded in front of Chris eyes, but he could still see that taunting fucking grin.

“By the way,” Red Mist said, when Chris could barely see anything. “You look like shit in leather, you skinny asshole.”

-o-o-

 

Chris opened his eyes and soon enough wished he had not. His vision was blurry and the room was spinning rapidly, he doubted he could so much as sit up. He stared at the ceiling in a lack of better things to do.

If there was one lesson Chris had learned from his dad it was that one should always ask for the good sleeping pills if they wanted to actually sleep. Chris often made a point out of following his dad's advice the best he could. This time, however, he forgot to. It didn't have much to do with his recent shortcomings in the trust department, he had just been in a lot of pain by the time the doctor finished patching him up.

Unfortunately for Chris, crappy sleeping pills meant four unrestricted hours of dreams.

The curtains were slightly parted. Chris could feel the warmth of the sun on his arm, it was almost unpleasant–– he much preferred moping around on rainy, cold days. It was more dramatic and it made him feel less like a sack of steamy horse manure.

“Whatever,” Chris muttered drowsily, “I look awesome in leather.”

At first the numbness and the bitter aftertaste of his nightmares sufficed to make Chris feel the whole weight of his conscience. Soon, though, he started to remember the things that happened the night before and a restlessness took over him. Dave could have continued being a good, trusting boy and all would have been well with the world. Chris' breath was suddenly caught in his throat when he recalled the tears he had shed and the shameful screaming. His cheeks felt hot and he wanted to disappear.

Despite the pain and without getting up Chris punched the wall beside him with a closed fist.

“Fuck that son of a bitch. Fuck him.”

Thank God! He was angry again. Embarrassment was too defeatist a feeling for his taste.

Chris decided to give sitting a try. He succeeded with only some pain and then decided to go a bit further and swung his feet off the bed. He doubted he could get up, but the promise of actually doing it at some point gave him hope he hadn't yet been defeated by Dave.

Chris shook the thoughts away again. He didn't want them, but that house was so silent there was nothing else with sufficient potential to distract him. He remembered begging his dad to be taken back home. Frank had insisted he should spend the night at the family doctor's clinic. It was safer, Frank had said.

Nowhere is safe, Chris thought. Not with the shit I have in my head right now.

Chris' phone beeped. He had received a text message. His heart beat faster and he realized even that fucking beeping sound made him think of Dave. Made him wish he had a better social life, too. Only co-dependent losers could be so easily attached to someone.

On one hand Chris knew it was probably one of those promotional texts, there was no need fret. Strangely his eyes wouldn't leave the phone. It was only a few steps away from the bed, right there on the table. Chris waved, dismissed the OCD-like thoughts. He didn't need to get up. He was perfectly in control of his will.

Chris tilted his head, it was throbbing, clouding his better judgment. He needed to read that message.

He got to his feet–– or at least tried to.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” He cried impulsively.

Chris had to switch from furniture item to furniture item lest he should just drop to the floor. He had never taken a beating, he couldn't have known a few punches and bat swings could temporarily cripple a man. That was one lesson learned, don't get beat to a pulp.

He reached the table eventually, and a very cozy chair too. Chris thought it would be enough to make him sigh in relief, but as it turns out one's legs keep hurting like hell even after they've been spared of strain. Shit.

Chris grabbed his phone.

IM SORRY GOOD BYE.

 

There was no need to check the caller's ID. Bad grammar, half-assed apologies, uncanny love for theatrics. It was Dave's.

With one swift flick of his wrist he threw the phone against the wall, shattering it to pieces. He was a little surprised at the “shattering” bit, but it was pretty good additional drama. Shitty phones were replaceable, his dignity was not.

For how long he sat there staring at the walls, Chris couldn't quite tell. By the time he heard a knock on the door, it was already noon judging by the sun. Chris didn't bother with answering.

“I thought I told you not to get up,” the doctor said as soon as he walked in. He was a small man with a full head of white hair and glasses at the tip of his nose, quite non-threatening until he opened his mouth and proved one has to be a hell of man to be a doctor to the mob.

“My phone was ringing.”

The doctor approached Chris and checked his wrist briefly. He eyed the phone pieces on the floor. “Not anymore, I see,” he said with a hint of amusement in his voice. “Your mother is here.”

Chris looked towards the door and at last saw his mother standing there. She seemed more broken up than usual, with the red eyes and trembling hands that showed she had been crying just a moment before. Her clothes and make up were impeccable as usual, though. Angie approached her son and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Oh, darling, how are you feeling?” she said with uncharacteristic sweetness. The doctor offered her a chair to sit in front of her son, and so she did. “Is the pain any better?”

Chris didn't respond. He felt very uncooperative at the moment.

Angie sighed. “I know, there's no way pain can feel better, I suppose. It's just an expression. I felt I had to ask, though,” she said apologetically. “I'm afraid I have some bad news, honey.”

Bad news? He had gotten used to those, there was nothing else that could shock him.

“Your father went back to the penthouse after he brought you to Dr. Kuhn's. It seems there was an altercation,” she said, mincing her words.

Chris raised his eyes. “What?” he asked.

“They killed him, Chris,” Angie sobbed. “Frank's dead.”

Chris was on his feet. Before he knew it and before Angie had time to say anything else, Chris flipped the table in front of them and it landed with a loud bang, although it wasn't damaged in the slightest. Chris didn't say a word and he didn't look deranged despite the ridiculous reaction, but his stoic yet hardened expression seemed to have kept Angie on her toes, looking absolutely terrified with a feminine hand over her lips.

“Honey, I––”

“Who?” Chris asked with threatening simplicity.

“The security cameras couldn't capture the whole thing. There was a purple haired child.” Chris never took his eyes off her, he was waiting for the rest of her answer. He knew there was more, inevitably. Angie dropped her hand to her lap. “Kick-Ass,” she said nonchalantly. “Kick-Ass killed your father.”

Chris sighed because there was nothing left for him to do. He walked to the single long window that covered the left wall and looked outside for... something. An answer, perhaps. His legs were killing him and his stomach throbbed as if from an overload of stomach acids (he pretty much knew he wouldn't be able to keep any food down for a while). Still, none of that fazed him. Not even his mother's scrutinizing silence, which only proved she was more worried about how the D'Amico heir would react, instead of caring about her son's feeling.

For the first time in his life Chris felt in control. He was the only one who could acknowledge the thoughts that were passing through his mind and they made him afraid. He had always known he was hardly the forgiving kind. He had never known, though, that he had it in him to simply frown at his father's death and plot vengeance.

Mom would be so pleased.

“Don't worry, mother,” said Chris without turning around, he wouldn't give her the satisfaction. “We will crush those motherfuckers.”

Angie laughed, choking back the tears. “I'm glad to hear that, dear.”

Chris put his hands behind his back, wondered if mother had remembered to bring him a change of clothes. There was so very much to do and pajamas wouldn't quite cut it.

Chris had so many ideas, a vastitude of plans and infinite drive. Dad would have been very pleased.

It seemed Chris D'Amico had at last become a man. Too bad for Dave.

Chris felt a stinging pain on his face and took a hand to his lips to inspect its source. Chris chuckled bemusedly: a grin had sneaked to his lips and he hadn't even realized it.

 

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that. I apologize for any glaring grammatical/spelling mistakes, as all of that was briefly beta-ed a very long time ago.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it. :)


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